


heard about all the miles you've gone

by zcinmalik



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Assassination Plot(s), Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jedi Scott McCall, M/M, McCall Family Feels, Minor Liam Dunbar/Mason Hewitt, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Privateer Stiles Stilinski, Protective Melissa McCall, Rescue Missions, Reunions, Romance, Smuggler Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Malia Tate Friendship, Villain Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zcinmalik/pseuds/zcinmalik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… </p><p>When Lady Allison Argent secretly turns rogue against the evil Galactic Empire, the inside information she supplies gives the Rebel forces a chance to finally prevail in their decades-long war against the Emperor. Scott, a Jedi knight, undertakes a dangerous mission to retrieve the data that Argent has stolen. But complications embroil him in a larger plot, one which will bring him face to face with his own long-forgotten past. </p><p>Ever since his childhood best friend was stolen away by the Jedi Order, Stiles has harbored as deep a hatred for them and their Rebel allies as he holds for the Empire. With his friend and captain Malia Tate, Stiles comprises half of an infamous smuggling duo, renowned for their independence from any galactic power. But when he and Malia are finally captured, Stiles finds himself forced into the service of the Rebellion as a reluctant privateer. </p><p>A desperate mission to assassinate Emperor Peter Hale reunites Scott and Stiles for the first time since they were children. As they and Malia undertake their assignment, the secrets, memories, and emotions that they harbor begin to drive their actions in potentially lethal ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heard about all the miles you've gone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2016 Sciles Big Bang
> 
> Note on the tag warnings: Canon-based child abuse of Scott by his father is mentioned in a flashback
> 
> Thanks to [Anne](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com/) for her encouragement and willingness to read over my initial outline. Thanks also to [Pocket](http://pocketlass.tumblr.com/) for her help with revising the summary. And thanks so much to [Saffa](http://dylangayberry.tumblr.com/) for his thoughtful and helpful beta. You guys rock!

By the time Scott gets to the shipping center where he’s supposed to exchange droids with the privateers, CY-4 has gotten severely irritated. They beep furiously at Scott, reviewing their hatred for Bespin, the fact that he promised he would never make them go to this planet again, and their disdain for this entire operation.

“Cee,” Scott says cajolingly, but they are having none of it.

No one else is at the bay yet given the early hour. Sunlight has only barely begun to emerge over the edge of the sky dock. Scott and CY-4 have arrived early, and though it means that there’s no chance of them missing their meeting, it also means that there’s more time for Scott to worry about what could go wrong.

 

* * *

 

When Lady Allison Argent first sent an encrypted message to the Rebellion, it had been widely thought to be a trap. No one believed that the daughter of Imperial nobility would ever join the resistance effort. But her message provided crucial intelligence on the Empire, along with a promise to give all the rest of the information she had in exchange for safe escape from her home planet to a Rebel base.

“And who better to conduct a secret exchange than a Jedi Knight?” President Morrell had asked. She, her cabinet, Master Alan, and Scott convened a day ago to determine the best course of action. She looked intently at her brother as she spoke. “You always tell me that they’re so much more equipped for undercover work than combat, Alan.”

Alan remained composed despite the sudden tension in the room. Scott could feel the vindictive glares of Morrell’s advisors as he focused on trying to read Alan’s expression.

“Of course,” Alan said simply. “The Jedi are just as prepared for covert missions as we’re dedicated to our shared cause with the Rebellion.”

A scoff, barely perceptible, escaped from one of Morrell’s advisors. Morrell did nothing more than glance at him, but he flushed with embarrassment and looked down in response. Morrell turned back to Alan.

“Of course,” she agreed. “And who do you suggest should be sent?”

“My former apprentice Scott, of course.”

Scott had turned to Alan with surprise. Alan had only ever sent him on Jedi missions, despite Scott’s many requests to become more involved with Rebellion efforts. Morrell raised an eyebrow and her cabinet looked flummoxed. Alan looked the tiniest bit smug, and Scott realized the motivation behind his choice quickly.

“Thank you, Master Alan,” Scott had said, giving a bow to Alan and a Rebel salute to Morrell. She gave him a mildly impressed nod before he left to begin packing.

Now, Scott wonders if he shouldn’t have been so excited to be given this mission. Because not only do intelligence efforts and a high-profile escape rest on his shoulders, but if he fails his mission it will be another blow against the already fragile relationship between the Jedi and the Rebels.

 

* * *

 

Stiles tries to focus on navigating, but between L9-R7’s beeping from the back about how important their mission is and Malia’s understandable but loud ranting from the captain’s seat about… well, about everything that’s happened in the past day, things are a little distracting.

“And I hope they _ and _ the Imperials blast each other straight into  _ hell _ .” Malia thumps her hand on the nearest flat surface for emphasis.

L9-R7 begins indignantly beeping in response, but Stiles cuts them off.

“Shut up back there,” he snaps. “We’re about to turn you into junk metal.”

The threat is an empty one and they all know it, but Malia shoots Stiles a terse nod of gratitude anyway. She doesn’t need to. He always has her back.

“I’m going to get us through this,” she says lowly. And Stiles knows that she will.

The mess they’re in started less than twenty-four hours ago. What was supposed to be a routine job between a couple of trade planets turned out to be a sting operation. They’d dealt with plenty of those in their time, but this one was different. This one was the Rebellion.

After they’d been arrested, Stiles had kicked furiously at the table to which he was handcuffed several dozen times before someone finally graced him with their presence. He looked up with a glare, only to be greeted by the sight of President Marin Morrell and her security detail.

“Stiles Stilinski,” she said, taking a seat across from him. He couldn’t help but gape– this was the free leader of the Rebellion, her face known so far and wide that it was even recognizable to a politically neutral outlaw.

“You’re Malia Tate’s navigator,” she continued, her expression carefully masked.

Stiles finally found himself able to muster a reply.

“Yeah,” he said. “Navigator of her  _ legal _ trading vessel.”

Morrell sighed impatiently, leaning backwards the tiniest fraction in her chair. “I have more pressing responsibilities that I need to get to, Stiles. Please don’t waste my time.”

“I wouldn’t be wasting it if I knew what I was doing here.”

“Captain Tate and her crew–” Morrell gave Stiles a nod– “have been offered positions as privateers in service of the Rebellion in the past. Very generous offers, I might add.”

Stiles gave a small, mocking grimace of a smile. He and Malia had consistently made their feelings about the Rebellion very well known when those offers were made.

“Given the current circumstances of the war, you and Captain Tate are no longer in a position to be considering offers, as we are no longer giving you a choice.”

Stiles scoffed. “Is that really what all this is about? You brought us in here to try to pull this  _ again _ ?”

Morrell’s face was so perfectly blank that it seemed preternatural.

“We brought you in here because we now have enough proof to legally hang you and Malia Tate for piracy and crimes against the Rebel Alliance.”

Stiles can’t help or control it; he feels his lungs close up in panic. For several seconds he wonders if he’s lost the ability to breathe, but then it comes rushing back as he takes in a gulp of air.

Morrell leans forward over the table.

“But I have no intention of hanging one of the best pilots in the galaxy, Stiles. Or her best friend, for that matter. Not when I need their help.”

Several hours and a tense flight later, Stiles still feels his heart beating just slightly off course. He knows that he needs to pull himself together, that he has no reason to believe the Rebels will go back on their word given how much they need their help. But he’s never properly considered what might happen if he and Malia got caught before– the idea always seemed so distant, so unlikely. They were always too busy travelling the universe, taking what they wanted, savoring a life of adventure and wealth, for Stiles to ever think about the ramifications.

Now he’s paying for that thoughtlessness with a forced suicide mission.

“I could cut this thing out of my arm,” Malia muses, and L9-R7 predictably launches into a droid-speak litany of protests, pointing out that any attempt to remove the device would detonate it. As though either of them could have forgotten.

The fail-safe to prevent Malia and Stiles from flying straight to the Outer Rim as soon as they were set free was a lethal tracking device that the Rebels had implanted in Malia’s arm. The minute Malia steers off course, the Rebels plan on using the tracker to kill her.

“But you want everyone to think you’re so much better than the Empire, right?” Stiles had said furiously as soon as he found out. “Fighting the good fight by putting civilians into forced labor?”

Morrell, already having stood to leave, turned and narrowed her eyes in response. Stiles felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing he had finally hit on something that might affect her.

“Can’t beat them fair, can you?” he said, leaning forward over the table. “So you decided to become just like them because you think that’s the only way you might be able to win.”

Morrell’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She took in a deep breath.

“You’re right on one score,” she finally said. “I’m desperate. I wouldn’t be commandeering the ship and the service of two anti-Rebel pirates if I weren’t.”

“What, can’t get enough enlistees for your voluntary military anymore?” Stiles asked. “I’m shocked. It’s almost like people are tired of being treated like pawns by you and your Empire pals.”

Morrell shook her head and suddenly seemed to lose her previous anger.

“You’re a fool,” she said simply, without malice. “You have no idea what’s at stake in this war. You don’t know what we’ve been fighting for over these past decades.”

“I don’t  _ care _ ,” Stiles said. “Leave me and Malia out of it.”

Morrell turned and nodded at a guard, who promptly opened the interrogation door for her. She paused in the doorframe, turning to glance back at Stiles a final time.

“The control I have over my generals is just as tenuous as the control my brother has over the Jedi Council,” she said. Stiles froze in angry recognition at the mention of Jedi. Morrell looked unsurprised at his outrage.

“And we’re reaching the end of a generations-long war, Privateer,” she added simply. “If you think there’s any way that a war like this one ends with everyone following the Rules of Engagement, you haven’t been paying attention.”

As she had left Stiles in his cell, the door slamming behind her, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that she might have a point.

“We make the exchange,” Malia says, pulling Stiles from his thoughts. “We give the droid to the Jedi, take another droid from him, and get it back to that Imperial on Coruscant. Then we get back to the nearest Rebel base to have those scum take this thing out of me.”

“Easy,” Stiles agrees, though he’d be able to sense Malia’s anxiety even if he didn’t know her better than anyone else. She’s scared, and rightly so, because this mission is putting them dead in the middle of the very war that they’ve been avoiding for the past ten years.

 

* * *

 

Someone is hiding on the dock.

Scott can sense them, and he realizes quickly that there must be more than one, because their hushed whispers are just barely audible in the muffled silence of the fog.

He makes a sign at CY-4, who ducks behind the nearest shipping container with an obedient coo. With a hand hovering over the hilt of his lightsaber, Scott begins moving toward the source of the voices. They must be standing behind another shipping container to hide themselves from view, because their words become clearer the closer Scott gets to it.

“–as soon as he enters the room,” a young woman says. Her voice sounds familiar, but Scott is too distracted with trying to make out what she’s saying to notice. “It won’t matter if he’s accompanied or not, because it’s a precision instrument.”

“Lethal injection,” a man replies. “Perfect.”

“If everything goes to plan, you’ll be able to leave the way you came–” the woman begins, but stops abruptly. Scott freezes mid-step. Silently, he takes the lightsaber hilt from his hip.

Before he can charge it, though, the unmistakable hum of a saber sounds– from behind the crate.

“Don’t move!” the woman yells, and suddenly emerges, holding her weapon in front of her. It emits a true blue glow, and that combined with the rising sun that shines on her face makes Scott finally recognize the Jedi in front of him.

“Kira!” he shouts in surprise.

Her firm glare softens at once, and her eyes widen. “Scott?”

From behind Kira emerges a handsome young man in an Imperial advisor’s uniform. Kira uncharges her lightsaber, putting it back on her hip absently as she stares in surprise at Scott.

“What– What’s going on?” Scott asks. He can’t understand what Kira is doing here. Last he heard, she had been sent by Alan to do reconnaissance work in some faraway system.

The man behind Kira takes another step forward, and seeing Scott’s uncharged lightsaber, seems to sigh with either relief or understanding.

“You’re Scott McCall,” he says, and a smile breaks over his face. “The Jedi.”

“Yes,” Kira says, seemingly having gotten over her shock. “Scott and I trained together. And this is Mason Hewitt, Scott. He’s a spy for the Rebellion. He’s infiltrated the Imperial palace.”

Scott glances between Kira and Mason.

“You were talking about killing someone,” he finally says.

Kira exhales, taking a step closer to Scott and lowering her voice even more.

“Mason is on the most important mission in the history of the Rebellion,” she murmurs. “I’ve been helping him from the outside.”

That much is clear. And unsurprising as well, Alan’s prior claims about where Kira was notwithstanding. One of Kira’s main concerns has always been the preservation and renewal of the Jedi/Rebel relationship, and not just because of her Jedi mother and Rebel father. Even as a child, Kira had always been keenly aware of the threat posed by the Empire, and of the need to present a united front against it. It makes sense that she would jump at the chance to work with a Rebel on a Rebel mission.

“Mason isn’t just inside the palace,” Kira continues lowly. She glances back at Mason with an unasked question, and Mason nods. Kira turns to face Scott again. “He has access to the Emperor’s chambers. And he’s going to use that access to assassinate him.”

“Hmm,” a voice purrs from above. Horrified, Scott stumbles a few steps back and looks up at the top of the crate, where a woman is running her fingers lovingly over a blaster rifle. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

And before they have time to react, she’s shot Mason in the back.

Mason falls to the ground and Kira has her lightsaber out in a moment. Scott charges his as well, but Kira is already deflecting blasts from the woman on the crate. The woman is edging away. Scott takes a running jump towards her and lands with a thud in the way of her escape.

“Jedi filth,” she growls, and raises her rifle to shoot at him. Scott prepares to slice through the rifle, but before he can, the woman has turned to glance below, where Mason is groaning in pain. Visibly angry, the woman whirls and redirects her aim at Mason to finish him off.

Kira’s lightsaber cuts straight through the woman’s heart.

Kira is standing behind her, having followed Scott’s lead and jumped to the top of the crate. She looks solemn as she discharges her weapon. The assassin’s body drops heavily.

“Mason,” Scott calls, discharging his lightsaber and jumping down. “Where are you hit?”

Mason groans again, curling to his side, his back arching in pain.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t– Who was she?”

Kira has turned the woman’s body over to look into her face. Scott hastily beckons at CY-4, who rolls out from their hiding place and begins scanning Mason’s injury.

“Imperial assassin,” Kira says. “I’ve seen the wanted holos. Jennifer Blake is her name.”

Scott has begun to rip off parts of his cloak to bind Mason’s injury. “We have to call the Rebels, get them to come take you for treatment.”

“No,” Mason protests immediately. “I have to finish my mission. It’s more important–”

“Mason,” Kira says softly. She’s jumped down to crouch over him. “If they sent Jennifer Blake for you, it means they found out. The Emperor knows who you really are. We can’t send you back there again, they’ll kill you as soon as you walk through the door.”

Mason’s breath has become shallow.

“His partner is flying over us,” Kira tells Scott, reaching for her communicator. “I stationed him there in case of emergency. I’ll bring him down, have him take Mason to the Rebels.”

Before she’s done more than flip a switch, though, a small ship has quickly and messily landed to a hover in the sky bay. The pilot, wearing a Rebel suit, exits the ship and makes a jump for the dock, barely landing it and scrambling to tie the ship in. Scott glances at Kira, who gives him a reassuring nod even as she puts her communicator away.

“I was listening in,” the pilot says after he runs toward them and drops next to Mason. “I started to land as soon as I heard the trouble.”

Mason blinks blearily in the pilot’s direction. “Wh– What’re you doing here, Liam? Thought you had an an assignment on Endor.”

Liam, who has already started to try and gather Mason into his arms singlehandedly, lets out a nervous bark of laughter. “What, thought just because you’re a big shot spy now that I wouldn’t be here?”

Seemingly unconsciously, Mason reaches out and touches his palm to Liam’s face, running a thumb over the corner of his lips.

Scott exchanges a look with Kira. Mason can’t be himself if he’s making displays of affection like that in public.

Scott can tell from Kira’s face that she already knew the Rebels were involved with each other. Kira gives a small shrug, and Scott nods shortly but reassuringly. He’d never turn them in, especially not with Mason injured from his service.

A moment later, Liam seems to come back to himself after an intimate, whispered exchange with Mason. He glances nervously at Scott, who pretends not to have seen anything.

“I’ll help you get him to the ship,” Kira says, and takes part of Mason’s weight from Liam.

 

* * *

“Where is this place anyway?” Stiles asks. Malia shakes her head, not looking away from her steering.

“Some bay on Bespin. It doesn’t matter. We’re just there to swap the droids and then haul ass back to the Rebels,” Malia says. After a moment, she adds in a would-be casual tone, “You probably don’t even have to get out of the ship if you don’t want to.” Stiles glances at her stiff profile. It’s obvious that she feels responsible for their being forced to work for the Rebels, that she probably thinks Stiles even blames her for it.

“Oh sure,” Stiles says. “Leave the sidekick in the ship.” Malia can’t hold back a laugh at that.

They land near the sky docks of the chosen city, and Stiles busies himself with prepping the ship for a quick turn-around and take-off while Malia herds L9-R7 off.

Just as Stiles is finishing in the cockpit, he hears Malia talking to someone outside– more than one person, in fact, which means something’s wrong. They were only supposed to meet up with a Jedi and their droid. Stiles takes his blaster from where it was set near his seat and carefully makes his way off the ship.

L9-R7 has clearly made a new friend; they’re beeping conversationally at a slightly smaller droid on the dock. Meanwhile Malia’s brow is furrowed with concern as she talks to a Jedi woman and a Rebel pilot, who are improbably holding an injured Imperial advisor between them.

“Who are these people?” Malia asks the Jedi, and the Jedi glances from her two companions back to Malia in confusion.

“Who are you?” she retorts.

Stiles jogs up behind Malia and sees another figure, this one also in Jedi robes, some yards away and making his way toward their group.

“Are we sure it’s this Jedi and not that one?” Stiles asks, nodding at the approaching figure. Malia shrugs, looking hesitant to talk openly until she’s sure that they’re in the right company.

“We don’t have time for this,” the Rebel pilot bursts out, his voice cracking the tiniest bit with strain– given the fact that he has a Jedi helping him carry the Imperial, Stiles guesses it must be emotional rather than physical. “I need to get Mason back.”

“They’re witnesses,” the Jedi woman says lowly. “If they–”

“It’s okay,” the other Jedi says as he comes up on them. “They’re here to make an exchange with me.”

Stiles glances at him again now that he’s closer, and within a moment all the breath has left his lungs as if he’d been punched.

The Jedi is Scott.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Scott ran towards Stiles’ house, stumbling occasionally due to the tears in his eyes that had blurred his vision. He couldn’t choke back a sob, his tiny fists rubbing ineffectually at his eyes even as he continued to run. _

_ Dad was gone. He had left after Scott caught himself, and Scott knew it was all his fault. He didn’t know how he’d done it, but he knew it had made Dad angry or scared enough that he had stared at Scott for a long moment and then turned and left. Instinctively, Scott knew that it was for good. _

_ “Stiles!” he wailed. _

_ He came upon the house and entered it as soon as he could get his clammy hands to turn the knob. Stiles’ parents were still at work, but Scott knew that Stiles was at home because they had had school today. _

_ “Scotty?” _

_ Stiles tumbled down the stairs clumsily, but his usual bright grin disappeared into an expression of confusion when he saw Scott’s face. _

_ “What’s wrong?” _

_ Embarrassed, Scott tried to wipe away his tears. _

_ “D– Dad,” he said haltingly, trying to quiet his sniffing. “He was– he and Mom were yelling at each other. And I–” _

_ Scott cut himself off, unsure if he was willing to admit to what he’d done. A glance at Stiles’ solemn round face gave him resolution. If anyone would understand, it would be Stiles. _

_ “I was scared and I wanted them to stop, so I tried to get in his way,” he said. “But Dad accidentally– he accidentally pushed me. I was near the stairs and I fell–” Stiles’ eyes widened. _

_ “But– but then I caught myself,” Scott said lowly, looking down at his feet. _

_ “On the rails?” Stiles asked. _

_ Scott shook his head, still looking down. _

_ “With… with your feet?” _

_ Scott’s voice cracked as he said softly, “I don’t know how I did it.” _

 

* * *

 

Scott looks into light brown eyes and in a rush of a moment, he recognizes them. They seem almost out of place here. Those eyes belong to the past, to a planet a long way from here, a long time ago. They belong to Scott’s childhood.

“ _ Scott _ ?”

Stiles is gaping, like he’s never been so floored in his life. They’ve caught the attention of the others, who are looking back and forth between them with confusion.

“Do you know each other?” Kira asks curiously.

“Kira,” Liam says urgently, adjusting Mason’s arm over his shoulder. “I can get him the rest of the way.”

Kira nods and gently lets go of the weight she was holding up for Mason. Just a few moments later, Liam is easing Mason into his ship and preparing it for departure.

The woman with Stiles is looking at him intently, as if trying to read his expression. Stiles takes a step forward, closer to Scott. He’s close enough now that they could shake hands, Scott thinks. Or hug, if… if things were different.

“Listen,” Kira says, somehow breaking the spell that’s come over them. “I don’t know what mission you’re on with these two, but we need to find someone to replace Mason immediately. This weapon and these plans are time-sensitive. There’s–”

“You’re a  _ Jedi _ ?” Stiles asks loudly, ignoring Kira to take a step even closer towards Scott. His temporary silence broken, words start to pour out. “You’re– I thought you were  _ dead _ , Scott. Where have you been? Where is  _ Melissa _ ? She left D’Qar to find you as soon as she woke up. You never came back–”

Scott feels overwhelmed by the interrogations. And Stiles’ tone– disbelieving, understandably, and shocked, mostly, but with the tiniest undercurrent of something like anger– makes Scott feel inexplicably defensive. He doesn’t even remember the last time he allowed himself to feel defensive.

“I– Of course I’m a Jedi,” Scott says, a hint of hurt audible in his voice despite his attempts to quell it. “That’s why they came for me. To train me to become a Jedi, to enter in the service.”

“But you– you went along with it?” Stiles asks. Scott can’t look away from Stiles’ expression, it’s so intent and burning. He didn’t remember Stiles like this at all. Stiles has mostly been a hazy series of snapshot memories: play-pretending to be Rebel pilots together, fighting against the Empire and rescuing secret royalty and always being awarded medals of honor at the end of it all… arguments about who would win in a fight between their favorite war heroes… taking Stiles’ hand in his own, ever-so-gently, when Stiles first told him through tears that his mom was sick.

This Stiles has none of the childlike softness of Scott’s blurred memories. His features are sharp and his face is hard with focus. The boy who had sworn he was going to be the best pilot in the Rebellion is now wearing civilian clothes and navigating a privateer ship. This Stiles is an adult, and he seems more different than Scott ever would have guessed. He’s striking, Scott can’t help but think. Something about him attracts attention.

Scott is brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Kira’s voice, farther off than it had been just a minute ago. He glances to his left and sees that Kira has retreated a few yards and is now speaking into her comm urgently. She must be getting that replacement assassin she was talking about.

“ _ Scott _ !” Stiles snaps impatiently, and Scott jumps a bit, turning back in surprise to see that Stiles’ mounting anger appears to have become something closer to fury. Scott can’t understand it at all, can barely process what’s happened over the past few minutes in the first place.

“Stiles,” he says. He has to rein in his emotions, he can’t allow this to distract him from his mission. He does his best to remember his training. “We don’t have a lot of time to talk. But yes… I’ve dedicated my life to Jedi service. It’s the right thing to do, and the best way for me to protect people.”

Stiles stiffens in unpleasant surprise.

“And Melissa?” he asks immediately, and Scott does remember this part, how ready Stiles always was with another point, with a counter argument, with some way to keep the debate going. Except that this isn’t as fun as Scott remembers arguing about hypothetical battles had been. “You never told her you were okay? You never found her?”

Stiles’ voice cracks the slightest bit, and it makes him flush slightly. He’s so emotional– Scott can feel everything that Stiles is going through radiating off of him so intensely. Alan would have been able to read Stiles from half a planet away. Scott’s old tutors would have told Stiles that he needed to learn how to control his emotions, instead of letting them spill out everywhere. But that would be unfortunate, Scott can’t help but think, because the unbridled feelings below his skin make Stiles look so alive.

Implicit in Stiles’ question is a more overt accusation.  _ You never found me? _

Scott glances at Kira, who’s looking in his direction even as she continues to speak to someone on her comm. He looks at the other privateer who came with Stiles, and who’s been unabashedly listening to their conversation, her eyebrows raised and her eyes almost comically wide. Scott leans forward a bit, toward Stiles, and tells him what Scott has been taught since he was five years old.

“Stiles… We’re forbidden from worldly commitments. We’re promised to the stars. You don’t understand– this is the best way to protect people. We have to be selfless.”

After a moment, Scott forces himself to look away from Stiles’ disbelieving face. Stiles doesn’t understand, how could he? He doesn’t know anything about the good things that the Jedi do, only the bad. Scott can’t deny to himself the doubts that he’s often felt, but equally, he can’t let them show. Especially not to Stiles, after they’ve just met for the first time in years. Stiles… Stiles just won’t understand.

Before Stiles can break the silence that’s fallen over them, Kira does. She’s made her way back to them and projects a holo of Morrell next to her.

“We have to find someone else to finish this mission,” Kira says urgently. “Master Alan can’t allow a Jedi to do it for fear that they’ll be captured and used against us.”

Morrell gives the smallest of sighs, barely perceptible if Scott hadn’t known it was coming. The Rebel resentment of the Jedi’s unwillingness to send their knights on certain missions is reaching a breaking point. Scott’s own exchange mission clearly wasn’t enough to reverse the current tide.

“Mason was our best spy,” Kira continues. “He was able to get exclusive permission to enter the Emperor’s chambers, but that means nothing for us now. We need someone completely unknown if they’re going to go in his place.”

“I don’t need to hear this,” Stiles’ companion says suddenly. “This isn’t what we’re here for. Stiles, give your friend his droid and let’s go.”

“Actually,” Morrell says, turning to her pointedly. “You do need to hear it. All of you.”

The privateer’s face flushes with barely suppressed fury. “If you think for a second that–”

“You have just heard that we need unknown spies to complete this mission,” Morrell says, her face solemn and unhappy. “You two are the only Rebel aligned entities whose faces aren’t known to the Empire and who are on the right side of the galaxy. I’m assigning you and your crewmate to this mission. Between your hatred for the Empire and the tracking device in your arm, I have no doubt you’ll find the motivation to get the job done.”

Scott glances from Stiles’ shell-shocked face to his companion’s enraged one, and finally to the impermanent blue projection of Morrell among them.

“What’s going on here?” he demands. “A tracking device? Is this a joke? You’ve started compelling people into service?”

“Yes, I have,” Morrell snaps, letting anger betray itself in an uncharacteristic display. “Hard as I’m sure it is for a Jedi to imagine, given that your people are used to taking the easy route of kidnapping and brainwashing your soldiers as children.”

Scott reels back the smallest bit, unconsciously. It’s unfair, Scott thinks, and she must know it. The Jedi don’t… It’s not like that. It’s  _ not _ , Scott thinks furiously. Alan has worked tirelessly in his role as a member of the council to reform their policy on collecting force-sensitive children, and Scott has helped him with that work too. There’s work to be done, and there are improvements to be made, but that doesn’t mean that the children who get taken are–

_ Scott finished the puzzle that was set before him and looked up into Master Satomi’s face. She was already much taller than him under normal circumstances, but with him kneeling by the table and her standing over him, she seemed to tower. _

_ “I want my mom,” he said. “I want to see her.” _

_ Master Satomi sighed. She waved her hand over the puzzle, and it morphed itself into a new problem to be solved. _

_ “Try again, Scott.” _

“President,” Kira says, a hint of sharpness in her tone. She jolts Scott out of his thoughts. “With respect, we don’t have the time for this. We need to find someone to fulfill this mission who’s properly trained for it. Even if these privateers weren’t being compelled, I have serious doubts about their ability to see an assassination through without getting captured before they’ve finished.”

Morrell opens her mouth to argue, even as Stiles’ companion has already started nodding her agreement with Kira.

“In that case the mission should be postponed,” Scott says. “And, if I may suggest it, I believe the entire assassination plot should be seriously reconsidered. The notion is not in line with the principles of the Rebellion.”

Kira shakes her head in disagreement, but rather than speak, she simply starts entering something into her comm.

“The information that we have on the Imperial palace is time-sensitive. Getting it has been more difficult and involved more sacrifices than you know of,” Morrell says. “We may not have the access that Mason was able to get for himself anymore, but we still have more than we will possibly ever get again. I understand that you and I have differing views on this matter, but what you’re suggesting is impossible. The assassination has to happen, and it has to happen now.”

“The President is right,” a familiar voice says, and suddenly a holo of Alan has joined that of his sister. Stiles and his companion throw their arms in the air simultaneously in twin shows of exasperation at the sudden presence of another person.

“Alan–” Scott begins, forgetting for a moment that he usually refers to Alan with his formal title in front of others.

“I know, Scott,” Alan says, his eyes soft and sympathetic. “Killing unnecessarily is against the way of the Jedi.”

Alan was the one who taught that to Scott. Everything that Scott values, every part of being a Jedi that he loves and believes in– those feelings and principles have all been the work of Alan. So Alan knows, better than anyone else, what they mean to Scott.

“If we assassinate the Emperor, we’re no better than him or his allies,” Scott says. He ignores the pang of hurt that shoots through him when Stiles mutters, so lowly that he probably thinks Scott can’t hear it, “You’re  _ not _ .”

“Believe me when I say that we have exhausted every avenue possible short of this action,” Alan says to Scott. “These decades of war, we’ve done everything that we could to end the Imperial rule with as little bloodshed as possible. But the reality is that the Emperor will never allow himself to be taken alive, and the war will never end unless he is unseated. Scott… you  _ must _ understand. The only way to restore the galaxy’s balance is by seeing this mission through to the end.”

Scott looks into Alan’s eyes, filtered as they are by the light of the comm’s holo, and knows that he’s telling the truth. Alan always tells Scott the truth, even if the truth is that he doesn’t know something. It’s why Alan was the Jedi master that Scott always instinctively trusted; even as a child, he knew that Alan wouldn’t lie to him.

“This is not a mission to kill one man,” Alan says, and Scott can tell that he knows his words are convincing him. “This is a mission to end a generation-long war, Scott.”

Scott inhales, looking from Alan to Morrell, from Kira’s determined burn of a gaze to Stiles’ searching look. After a moment of silence, Scott turns back to Alan. Alan looks as though he knows what Scott is about to say before he’s even said it.

“Then I’ll go with them.”

 

* * *

 

The journey to Coruscant is lightspeed-short, but the most tense experience that Stiles has ever had.

He’s still reeling from everything that’s happened: the offset original mission, the unexpected and undesired new mission, and more than anything else, more than anything in his entire life thus far, seeing Scott again.

He never thought he’d see Scott again. Part of him wants to just hug Scott indefinitely. Another part of him wants to yell at him, to scream, to throw things in a fit, because if Scott’s a Jedi now,  _ why _ did he never come back home? (A small part of Stiles’ mind points out that Stiles wouldn’t have been at home to receive Scott even if he had gone back, but Stiles shoves that idea to the side quickly).

He wants to believe that Scott would never have given himself over to Jedi service, no matter how old he was when he got taken. Not when they were the ones responsible for taking him away from his home.

But, as Stiles stares into space, he thinks about what Morrell said earlier. Scott got kidnapped when he was only five years old– in reality, it was odd that either of them even remembered each other at all. And all the intervening time, when Stiles had been going to school and growing up and free, Scott had been getting indoctrinated and brainwashed. A surge of guilt comes over Stiles and he frustratedly runs a hand through his hair. Of course Scott had been hesitant to respond to him earlier. He had insulted the group that Scott had Stockholm syndrome for. He’ll never get through to Scott if he keeps being so aggressive; he needs to try a different tactic.

Malia is flying the ship on her own for now. She doesn’t know or trust Scott well enough to let him copilot, and one look at Stiles’ still-shocked face as they boarded had her telling him that he should take a few minutes to himself in the back. She’ll be able to get them back to Coruscant easily enough. After about fifteen tense seconds sharing a hallway bench with Scott, Stiles had muttered some excuse and made his way to his “room,” an area at the back of the ship cordoned off by a hanging curtain.

Now, Stiles drops backwards in a flop onto his cot. Here, in the privacy of his space, he lets himself wonder seriously whether there is any chance that they will survive this mission. They’re being sent to do someone else’s job, with someone else’s weapon, in a place that they barely know. And that job happens to be the assassination of the most powerful man in the galaxy.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Stiles says.

He tries to think. Closing his eyes and tapping his forehead with his closed fist, he does everything he can to come up with some sort of plan, something that will get them out of this safely.

Maybe they  _ should  _ try and cut the device out of Malia’s arm. Surely they can be faster than whoever is monitoring her, right?

“Yeah, maybe we’ll hit an artery and she’ll bleed to death in three minutes,” Stiles mutters to himself, annoyed.

If they get Scott on their side, would it make a difference? Scott doesn’t want to be doing this in the first place either, admittedly out of some desire not to kill that seems bizarre to Stiles, but still. Maybe Scott can use the Force to disable the device. Then they could just fly away somewhere safe, Stiles and Scott and Malia. Maybe they could even go to D’Qar.

_ That’s not a plan, that’s a fantasy _ , Stiles thinks. But maybe there’s something to be said for trying to get through to Scott, if for no other reason than because Stiles doesn’t particularly want to die while he’s still in a fight with his childhood best friend. Not after he just got reunited with that best friend after decades of separation.

Stiles rolls off his cot heavily and makes his way back to the main part of the ship, where Scott is still sitting and staring at his feet, seemingly lost in thought.

“Hey,” Stiles says, dropping to a seat next to him. Scott glances at him, his face almost perfectly blank. It’s strange to see the lack of a telling expression on Scott’s face– Stiles’ memories of Scott are filled with his expressive face, always so readable to Stiles, his eyes constantly wide with some sort of emotion. Now, Scott is all Jedi calm, at least on the outside.

“Listen,” Stiles says, before Scott can reply. Scott sits up a bit and turns more fully to Stiles. “I want you to know that everything that happened with the Jedi, the fact that you’re working for them now and that you’re one of them– it’s okay.”

Scott’s brow furrows the smallest bit, but Stiles presses on, ignoring it.

“What I’m trying to say is that… I understand, Scott. I understand why you’ve done what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” Scott asks. He’s leaning back now, away from Stiles, in a way that’s barely perceptible. Stiles might not have even noticed if he hadn’t also seen the way Scott’s subtle frown is becoming more pronounced.

Stiles sighs. He didn’t want to have to spell it out. “They brainwashed you, Scott. It’s why they steal children so young–”

Unexpectedly, Scott stands up, turning so that he’s looking down on Stiles intently. Stiles glances up into his eyes with surprise, his mouth hanging open the slightest bit.

“How could you be so–” Scott begins, but cuts himself off. “I was not  _ stolen _ , Stiles. I was– I was reclaimed for the Order.”

His sentence tapers off with the smallest bit of uncertainty, but Stiles pays no attention, too consumed with his own sudden annoyance.

“ _ Reclaimed _ ?” he asks with disbelief. “What, like they  _ own _ you?”

“Of course not!” Scott says, his face flushing the smallest bit. “I– Stiles, I can’t talk about this right now. We have a mission to complete and we need to focus.”

Before Stiles can reply, Scott has turned on his heel and made his way to another compartment of the ship.

 

* * *

_ Scott could hear the sound of Stiles crying before he knocked on his mostly-closed bedroom door. Mom was downstairs with Stiles’ dad, helping him to put away all the food that the guests had brought to the wake. Earlier that day, when Scott asked Mom why everyone brought so much food, she had said, “They want to help out, and show that they’re sorry for what happened. The food will give Stiles and his dad one less thing to worry about for a while.” _

_ When Scott gently pushed Stiles’ door open, he caught sight of Stiles sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his small suit. Stiles looked up into Scott’s eyes, his cheeks pink with tear tracks. _

_ Scott took a few hesitant steps inside, toward where Stiles was sitting. _

_ “I want my mom,” Stiles said, so softly that Scott almost couldn’t make out what he was saying. Stiles started crying more heavily, as if the confession made it worse. _

_ Scott closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ shoulders with the clumsiness of a child. He dropped to a seat next to Stiles, holding him as best he could, and Stiles turned his face into Scott’s own shoulder, muffling his cries. _

_ “I know,” Scott whispered. It felt like he couldn’t speak in a normal tone. _

_ Scott wasn’t sure how long they sat there. Every once in awhile, Scott would adjust his grip on Stiles’ shoulders, keeping him in place. Stiles continued to cry. _

_ Finally, Stiles disentangled himself from Scott with a last, loud sniff. He turned from where he was sitting to face Scott. _

_ “Thanks, Scotty,” he said. Scott wanted to reach forward and give him another hug, but he wasn’t sure if Stiles wanted it or not. _

_ “You and your mom have been around a lot,” Stiles continued. “Will you… will you keep coming around now that the funeral’s over?” _

_ “Yeah,” Scott said immediately. “Of course we will.” _

_ “Okay,” Stiles said, relief audible in his voice. “Good. I want… I want us to always stay together.” _

_ Scott, never imagining that anything would ever take him away from Stiles, said, “We’ll stay together forever.” _

 

* * *

 

Scott shakes his head and runs a hand over his face once he’s away from Stiles. He can’t do this right now. He can’t distract himself. Memories and emotions are clashing together, building up in his mind and just waiting to overtake him.

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s so frustrating to hear him talk to Scott as if he’s stupid, as if he’s a victim.  _ Brainwashed _ . Stiles doesn’t know anything.

Stiles’ eyes are just as warm as Scott remembers them being. He hadn’t remembered the color until he recognized it, but the feeling that he gets when he looks into them– that feeling is the same. And now he remembers it, and more and more memories are rushing in as if that one childhood emotion was enough to open the floodgates.

He can’t do this. He can’t distract himself with thoughts of Stiles, of Stiles’ words, of Stiles’ face. He has to focus on the mission.

Alan. Alan is counting on him. And Scott loves Alan, the father that he needs and deserves. His real father.

Scott is half tempted to turn around and go back and confront Stiles.  _ If you knew anything about the Jedi, you would know about Alan. You would know everything that he’s done, everything that he’s doing, to make things better. And I’ve been helping him. Because I can think for myself, because I’ve never been–  _

Scott shakes his head again, as if he can shake the thoughts right out of his head. He can’t let himself get distracted.

 

* * *

 

Malia puts the ship on autopilot once she’s sure that they’re on the right course. Then she snatches the map they got from the woman Jedi and makes her way to the back of the ship.

Stiles is moping– there’s really no other word for it– on a bench. Malia can only guess what’s happened. Not having had the time to talk privately for any length of time, she hasn’t been able to get any information about Scott out of Stiles. Admittedly, she’s also been a little distracted by her own problems.

Malia is not one for keeping secrets. She never has been. It’s just that she never really thought this particular one would ever be relevant enough to be worth mentioning. Now, she feels like it might be a little late to let Stiles in on it given the circumstances.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

He glances up, his hair wild from where he’s clearly been running his fingers through it.

“Not remotely,” he says promptly. “Are we letting the ship fly herself?”

Malia holds up the keycard with the map on it in answer. “I don’t think we’re going to have a lot of planning time when we get down there. Better figure it out now.”

Stiles nods, his eyes vague.

“Do you want to tell me what the hell’s going on with you and Scott?” Malia suggests lowly, trying not to let her concern color too much of her tone.

Stiles seems to come back to himself. He shakes his head. “Um, remember how I told you about my best friend Scott who got kidnapped by the Jedi? Yeah, um… turns out, that’s him.”

Malia lets the hand holding the map drop to her side. She gives him the most unimpressed look she thinks she’s ever given him.

“You don’t say, I never would’ve guessed,” she says flatly. “I didn’t mean who is he, Stiles, I meant what the hell is going on with the two of you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter right now. We have more important things to worry about.”

Malia can’t argue that, even if she wanted to.

“Okay,” she says after a long moment. “The security access that the Rebel spy got for himself has all been revoked by now, but we still have all the information that he got along with the map. Which means that we’re going to have a matter of minutes to hack into the Emperor’s chambers without setting off the security. The problem is that the Emperor has two different sets of personal chambers, one on each side of the palace.”

As she reviews the information, Scott walks into the room and leans against the nearest wall, listening. Stiles stiffens and unconvincingly pretends not to see him.

“So I’m going to take the west wing while you two will take the east,” Malia continues. Stiles immediately opens his mouth to protest.

“You two should go together,” Scott says, echoing the sentiments of Stiles’ expression.

“Stiles and I are the only ones on this mission with extensive experience in getting past security systems and guards,” Malia says. “We need to split up to take on each of the two entrances. And Stiles, you and I both know that you’re more likely to get caught than me. You need the extra backup.”

Scott looks convinced. Stiles looks indignant, but he can’t deny the fact that Malia is both stealthier and more well-armed than him.

“I still don’t like it,” Stiles says. “What if you get close enough to the Emperor for the Rebels to decide to blow you up just so they can take him down with you?”

“The Rebellion would never–” Scott starts, looking disgusted at the very idea.

“If that happens, then it’ll happen with or without Scott next to me,” Malia says. She’s thought through all of the arguments that Stiles will make. She needs to be able to counter them well, because he can’t know the real reason why she’s doing her part of the mission alone. “The Rebels would be more than willing to sacrifice a Jedi to kill the Emperor. Hell, even the Jedi might be willing to do that.”

Scott pales the slightest bit. Absently, Malia wonders why. It’s only the truth, after all, and it’s a truth that Scott probably knows better than any of them.

“So we’re decided,” Malia says. Scott and Stiles look anything but decided.

But they’ll just have to deal with it, Malia thinks. She’s still the captain of this ship.

 

* * *

 

They land in one of the industrial yards at Coruscant, where their ship won’t attract much notice. The map that Kira gave them directs them to the underground entrance from which they’ll be able to sneak into the palace.

“No comms,” Malia says as they duck into the sewer from which they’ll be able to get to the entrance. “We’re not taking any chances that they might hear us. Instead, I’m giving each of you a silent switch. You turn it left if you’ve made it into the chambers, right if you’ve successfully planted the device, up if you’re trapped somewhere and you need someone to come get you, and down if you’ve been caught or there’s a mayday. Got it?”

Stiles and Scott take a switch each. Stiles feels anxiety mounting as they get closer and closer to the palace. He feels trapped, with no way out of this situation and with no way of knowing how it could possibly end well. He doesn’t want to send Malia off alone, and he doesn’t want Scott to be endangered either, no matter what their current relationship status is. He wishes that he could call this whole thing off, but he’s thought about their options enough to realize that they have no choice but to see the mission through.

Their feet splash in the filth of the sewers, but it lessens the further along they get, until they arrive at a passage that’s clearly been dug out in order to allow access to the palace kitchens.

“Rebel work,” Malia says absently. “Not bad.”

Stiles is in no mood to acknowledge anything good that the Rebels have done.

“You two take Kira’s map,” Malia says, tossing the keycard to Scott. “I have it memorized. You’ll go left when we get out and I’ll go straight ahead. Don’t talk unless it’s absolutely necessary, their security measures will be up since they know Mason is still alive.”

Stiles opens his mouth, and Malia must know what he’s going to say, because she shakes her head before he can speak.

“We don’t have any time, Stiles,” she says.

Stiles takes her arm.

“I don’t care,” he says. “Be careful. I mean it. If you get yourself hurt, I’ll kill you.”

Malia isn’t able to bite back a smile, despite the worry in her eyes. She drops an uncharacteristic kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

“Watch each others’ backs,” she says, and lifts herself through the kitchen entrance before Stiles can reply.

He glances back at Scott, whose face is a mask.

“Ready?” he asks.

In answer, Scott pockets Kira’s map and walks past Stiles to lift himself up into the kitchens.

They’re relying on so much dumb luck to get through this that Stiles doesn’t want to think about it too much. One of Morrell’s reconnaissance team members gave them last-minute rough estimates of Imperial staff uniforms before they left Coruscant, but anyone who looks at them closely will immediately know that something is wrong.

“Stay behind me,” Scott says once they get to a high-ceilinged hallway. “If anyone asks, we’re going to do a maintenance check-up.”

Stiles knows he should keep his mouth shut, knows that this is beyond not the time to be talking about anything related to their argument. But with his nerves frayed as they are, his already-low self-control is virtually nil.

“Done this a lot, have you?” he asks lowly as they walk. He can hear the bitterness in his own tone. So far they have yet to run into anyone else. “With your Jedi friends?”

“Probably as much as you and Malia,” Scott replies, and Stiles catches something in his voice that he wasn’t able to see in his face earlier.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles asks suddenly, his anger making his voice rise the slightest bit. “Do you seriously think you have the right to be jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Scott says, turning to meet Stiles’ gaze as Stiles quickens his pace to move near Scott’s side. “If anyone’s jealous it’s you.”

A voice in his head that sounds remarkably like Malia tells Stiles to shut the hell up and focus on his job.

“You’re so right,” Stiles says. “I’m just so overwhelmed by envy that you get to be the Jedis’ little bitch. You know what, maybe that was what you wanted all along, why you never came home.”

As soon as the words are out of Stiles’ mouth, his eyes close with belated regret. He wishes he had never started this conversation, but it’s far too late for that. Scott’s jaw squares, and he turns away from Stiles to look straight ahead, just in time to see a group of Imperial nobles round a corner and start walking toward them.

Stiles sees them a split second after Scott, and falls back to walk behind Scott immediately. He feels like the worst sort of coward, hiding behind the person he just insulted, but there’s nothing to be done about it. They need to keep up appearances.

Stiles tenses the closer that they get to meeting the group. He sees Scott subtly shifting, as if preparing himself for a fight.

As they pass the nobles, Stiles keeps his eyes down, wondering if Scott is doing the same. He holds his breath for several long moments, listening to their chatter and the sound of their robes whooshing over the clicking of shoes on the hard floor.

Stiles is about to breathe again when from behind him, a man says, “Hey, you two!”

They turn simultaneously, Scott taking a step to the side so he can begin moving between Stiles and the noble. The man has graying hair and a sharp look in his eyes. He’s staring at them, having moved away from the group he was walking with. They’ve now stopped as well, their attention caught by the man’s words. They glance back towards Scott and Stiles curiously.

Stiles is frozen in place, but Scott takes a few steps past him and toward the noble.

“Duke Argent,” Scott says calmly. Stiles realizes that the inside information Lady Allison gave them must have included pictures of her parents. “How may I–”

“I ordered every spare member of the maintenance personnel to attend to the Duchess,” Argent barks. They’ve now definitely attracted the attention of the other nobles, who have stopped chattering and are looking on in absorbed, malicious silence. They must get their entertainment from watching each other order around the servants, Stiles thinks.

Scott takes another few steps closer to Argent, who is about to continue his rant when he looks down at Scott’s fake uniform. Stiles winces. From that close, there’s no way that Argent is fooled by it. He takes in a deep breath and reaches for the blaster that’s hidden in his vest, when Scott speaks.

“There is nothing wrong with my uniform,” he says, low enough that only Stiles and Argent can hear. Argent’s face goes slack. “You will leave us alone and go about your business.”

“There is nothing wrong with your uniform,” Argent murmurs absently. “I will leave you alone and go about my business.”

Argent turns on his heel and walks back to the group of nobles. They begin chattering amongst themselves again as he joins them, clearly bored with the anticlimax of their encounter.

Scott turns, gives Stiles a short nod, and continues walking down the hallway.

Stiles realizes that his jaw is hanging open and he’s still staring at where Argent is disappearing around a corner a few moments later. He turns away and jogs to catch up with Scott.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks excitedly as he slows to a walk next to Scott. “That was amazing! How did you  _ do _ that?”

Scott glances at Stiles, his face some combination of unimpressed and offended that makes Stiles remember what happened prior to their run-in with the duke.

“Scotty,” he says, more subdued this time. They get to the first check-point they need to pass in order to enter the chambers. Scott enters a code and the door promptly opens. Stiles shakes his head and reminds himself to ask Scott exactly how much information he got between Mason, Kira, and Allison. Later on, though, when Scott doesn’t hate him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles continues. “What I said earlier, that was such a stupid thing to say. What they did to you wasn’t your choice or your fault. And–”

“Stiles, I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Scott says. He’s checking the mini holo as they walk, making sure that they’re going the right way.

“No, I understand that, but I think–”

Scott powers the holo down and takes a right, leading them further into the depths of the Imperial chambers.

“Stiles,” he says, a hint of annoyance making itself heard under his Jedi calm. “I  _ really _ don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“But I feel like–” Stiles begins. They’ve made it to the next door, one that has a key reader on it. Scott takes a key card from his vest and holds it up. They wait expectantly for a moment. Nothing happens.

Scott tries another key card. And a third.

“I don’t understand–” Stiles says, but then the reader glows white, the shape of a hand forming itself over the pad.

“It’s a bio-reader,” Scott says. His eyes have widened with horror. He’s standing, stiff, his hands holding an assortment of keys and tools, none of which will get them inside.

“Shit,” Stiles says, his mind working furiously. “No, no, this is fine. We’ll just need to get an actual maintenance person and force them to open it for us.”

Scott shakes his head. “He would only put a bio-reader on a door that needed to be kept completely off-limits. This can only open for the Imperial bloodline.”

With mounting frustration, Stiles kicks the door, hard.    
  
“Well, then I’m really glad that your Rebel friends sent us on an impossible suicide mission!” he shouts.

“What was that?”

The sound of a woman’s alarmed voice interrupts Stiles’ rant. She has to be a patrol guard, he realizes, to be this far back in the palace. Stiles feels his blood turn to ice.

“We have to get out of here, now,” Scott hisses, turning to lead the way back out of the chambers.

Quietly and quickly, they start to walk towards the entrance that they came from. They somehow manage to make it to the main hallway again without any run-ins, and Stiles is about to thank his lucky stars when they hear the sound of a large group of guards about to round a corner ahead of them. The boots are unmistakeable– these are nothing like the soft sounds of the nobility.

Scott grabs Stiles by the shoulder and shoves the two of them unceremoniously into a nearby supply closet not a moment before the guards get into their line of sight. Stiles takes in a shaky inhale, his nose an inch from Scott’s. Stiles doesn’t remember the last time he was pressed this close to someone else, but he can hardly appreciate the more pleasant effects given how panicked he is.

“Could you do your mind trick again?” he breathes, so low he can barely even hear himself. Scott shakes his head immediately.

“I can do it on one,” he whispers. “But there’s no way I could get that many. We’d have to fight our way out, and they’d sound the alarm anyway.”

“57 and 93, I want you to patrol this hallway while we investigate further back,” a woman says.

The guards pass by the tiny closet that they’re jammed in, all but two, who begin pacing the length of the hallway diligently.

“Goddammit,” Stiles says.

Scott closes his eyes in frustration. “We’re stuck here.”

It’s only after a moment of silence descends that Stiles realizes exactly how close he and Scott are. Their legs are entwined, with Stiles leaning back into some shelves and with Scott’s back to the door. Stiles is becoming warm from the heat of their bodies’ proximity. He looks into Scott’s eyes, sees all of the details of his face that Stiles hasn’t had the time or the ability to appreciate yet. The faint overhead light in the closet casts long shadows over Scott’s face, but Stiles is so close that he can make out every definition of his features. Scott only returns Stiles’ gaze for a moment before dropping his head down as if to focus on something else. He gently exhales, his warm breath blowing on Stiles’ collarbone. Incongruously, Stiles feels a shiver run up his spine in response.

“I think we should talk,” Stiles says lowly.

Scott looks up. His brows furrow with frustration, though whether it’s at Stiles, their situation, or something else, Stiles isn’t sure. He doesn’t argue, though, so Stiles takes his silence for agreement.

“I just… I really am sorry, Scott. About all of it.” He looks intently into Scott’s eyes, refusing to give in to the impulse to drop his gaze. Scott needs to know that he means it. Scott sighs.

“Stiles…” he starts.

“I could never blame you for what happened. Even suggesting it was so wrong and so stupid.” Stiles forms fists with his hands, which are pressed against the shelves behind him, holding him up. He’s overcome with frustration with himself, with his constant need to have the last word, to always be right. “I blame  _ them _ for what happened. They’re the ones who hurt you. You and Melissa and me.”

Scott’s eyes burn with sudden anger. “You? And I’m not a  _ victim _ , Stiles. I’m not  _ hurt _ .”

Stiles sighs, and tries to make his tone as level as possible. He’s not sure how successful he is. “How could you be? They made it so that you don’t even know what you lost. You don’t even know what we had.”

“ _ We _ ?” Scott asks disbelievingly, and Stiles can feel the tension between them mounting. This is not going how he hoped it would. Scott is genuinely furious. “You and I were children. We didn’t  _ have _ anything. I barely know you, Stiles.”

Stiles loses his breath as though he just got punched. He knows that Scott might not remember as well as he did, he knows that they were just kids and that by all rights they shouldn’t remember much of it to begin with. But he also knows that Scott remembers more than he’s letting on, that he must be if he’s using it against Stiles right now. Scott has to know that they were best friends, that they were more than that. They went through more in a few years than most people went through in a lifetime, and they did it together. How could Scott ignore that? Was he doing it just to hurt Stiles, just because he was angry about what Stiles had already apologized for? How  _ dare _ he, honestly?

Stiles grips Scott by the front of his shirt and turns them around, causing some storage boxes to bang against each other loudly. Their bodies collide in movements that aren’t quite rough, but are somehow nevertheless just this side of dangerous. Dangerous, Stiles thinks, because he knows that the one thing he can’t do right now is allow himself to think about the sensation of Scott’s skin against his own.

Once Stiles is the one with his back to the door, he hisses, “Fine. I don’t have to listen to this. We’re splitting up– I’ll draw the attention of the two outside and you go find Malia. Or get back to the ship and wait there, I don’t care.”

“Stiles–”

Stiles ignores Scott, turning around and storming out. He takes out his blaster, feeling the heat of its charge as if he himself was the source of it. He glances around the empty hallway and groans.

“They’re not even here anymore,” he says, not bothering to turn back towards Scott. “They probably snuck off to have a drink or something.”

He’s about to turn towards the exit when echoes of footsteps start making their way toward them.

“Amateurish,” the same woman from earlier barks. “You should have taken them yourselves, not wasted time getting the rest of us.”

Stiles whirls around to look at Scott, who inexplicably waves a hand. Stiles is about to gesture for them to get back inside the closet when he feels his body being shoved, hard, away from Scott and the closet. He flails, trying to catch himself on something, as he gets pushed further and further down the hallway, until he finally comes to a stop just behind a corner at the end. He tries to stick his head out from behind the wall to see what’s going on, but something stops him, like another wall, but invisible.

It takes a long moment, during which the hum of a lightsaber starts, for Stiles to realize. Scott used the Force to push him away. Why?

“Where’s your comrade, Jedi?” the woman asks.

Instead of answering, it sounds like Scott begins to try and fight all of the guards at once. There’s no way he can do it, not if the group was as big as it sounded when it passed by them. Scott has to know that there’s no way he can win.

Frustrated, Stiles keeps trying to push against the wall, but to no avail. All he can hear are the sounds of blasters and the lightsaber, and the woman guard yelling above the fray that the Jedi needs to be taken alive.

A moment later, a horrible crack echoes. Stiles freezes in response just in time, because as soon as he hears it, the wall holding him back seems to crumple.

“Team D, take the prisoner to Sector 4. Team H, find the second one and detain him.”

Unable to breathe, Stiles turns carefully around the corner to see the Imperial guards walking away from him. Two of them drag Scott’s lifeless body between them, and Stiles watches him get taken away, as helpless to stop it now as he was when it first happened.

 

* * *

 

_ Stiles kicked his shoes off as soon as he was through the door. Dad wouldn’t be home for a while, so he went to the kitchen to make himself a snack. Stiles was about to, at least, before Scott burst through the front door noisily. _

_ “Scotty?” Stiles asked, turning immediately to see him. They were supposed to meet up later, but he guessed that– _

_ Scott’s eyes were wide with terror, the type that Stiles hadn’t seen since Scott’s dad left. Stiles took a few steps forward, but before he could say anything else, Scott spoke. _

_ “They told me they needed to talk to Mom,” he said, his voice wrung with fear. _

_ Stiles didn’t need to ask who “they” were. Today the Jedi had come to their school, like they did every few years. It was the first time Stiles and Scott had remembered them coming, and they had talked excitedly about whether or not they’d get to see a real life lightsaber. Now, Scott looked deathly afraid. _

_ “I think I’m in trouble,” he said. “I think I did something wrong.” _

_ “Did your test go wrong?” Stiles asked. They had all been pulled aside throughout the day by a teacher who led them to a test room. Stiles hadn’t felt like it was much of a test, just some boring questions and talking. _

_ “I don’t know!” Scott began crying in earnest, and Stiles rushed forward to hug him. _

_ “It’s okay,” he said. “My dad won’t be home for a while, but we can go get your mom.” _

_ Scott continued sniffling all the way back to his house, where they waited in the living room for Scott’s mom to come home from work. As soon as she came through the front door, she frowned. _

_ “Scott? What’s wrong?” _

_ Scott tried to speak through his crying, but couldn’t make himself understood. _

_ “The Jedi said they needed to talk to you,” Stiles said. “But Scott didn’t do anything wrong, their tests were dumb.” _

_ Scott’s mom looked lost for a long moment, and then her eyes widened with the same fear Stiles saw in Scott’s. It terrified him. _

_ “What–” Melissa began, but then got cut off by a series of pounding knocks at the door she had closed moments ago. Scott and Stiles jumped in surprise, and before they knew what was happening, Melissa was herding them into the coat closet. _

_ “Shh,” she whispered. “Shh, I want you to stay in here. Don’t move.” _

_ When she closed the door, they were left in darkness. Stiles clutched Scott, as much for his own comfort as for Scott’s. They could hear the voices of the Jedi and Melissa as they moved from the front door to the couch that Stiles and Scott had been sitting on moments ago. _

_ Stiles didn’t understand what they were saying– words jumped out at him like “gifted” and “training,” and he heard Melissa’s voice becoming increasingly angry. They argued for a long time, but Stiles remained frozen, holding onto Scott tight for fear that they would somehow hear if he moved an inch. _

_ “I want you to remain calm,” a man finally said, and the power in his voice made Stiles nearly sit down with the force of it. “I’m going to take Scott out of that closet over there and then take him to his new home.” _

_ Stiles would never understand how Melissa did it, how she somehow overcame the imperative in that voice, but there was suddenly a loud blasting noise and a thump. _

_ “Say that again and I’ll shoot to kill,” Melissa said, her voice colder than Stiles had ever heard it before. _

_ What were clearly the sounds of a fight broke out in the next moment. Scott, who had been trembling in Stiles’ arms over the course of the argument, suddenly took a step forward and out of them, opened the door, and leaped out of the closet before Stiles could stop him. _

_ Stiles rushed after him and watched in astonishment as Scott began hitting at every inch he could of one of the Jedi who was standing over a now-unconscious Melissa. _

_ “Don’t hurt her!” Scott yelled, his face still streaming with tears. _

_ The man turned in surprise, grunting with sudden pain as Scott kicked him in the knee. A woman who had Melissa’s blaster in her hand dropped it lightly onto a table. _

_ The man who Scott was attacking suddenly swept him into his arms. Scott kept kicking and hitting even as the man and his companions turned toward the front door. _

_ In that moment, Stiles came out of whatever shock he was in and ran forward, chasing after the man and screaming in protest. He nearly caught up with them, reaching a hand forward to try and grab Scott out of the Jedi’s arms, when he felt his body freeze in motion. _

_ The other Jedi all ignored him, except for the woman who had taken Melissa’s blaster. She knelt down in front of Stiles, who stood unmoving even as the Jedi took Scott further and further from his home. _

_ The woman waved a hand, and Stiles could move his body again. He made to run past her, but she looked him in the eyes and very calmly told him to stay where he was. _

_ Stiles stayed there for hours and hours, long after the Jedi were out of sight and the sounds of Scott’s screams were no longer audible. He stayed there until Melissa ran out of the house, a large bruise and the most angry, anguished expression that Stiles would ever see on her face. Helpless, he could do nothing but watch as Scott got taken away. _

 

* * *

 

Scott comes back to consciousness with the most splitting headache he’s ever had in his life, and with the dawning realization that he’s locked in a cell.

He groans from the pain, bringing hands to his face to try and block what little light is present in the cell. Memories begin to come back to him slowly, and he eventually gets to how he got here– sending Stiles away to escape, trying to fight the Imperial guards but knowing that he was too outnumbered to do so.

It takes the smallest of movements on his part for Scott to realize that something besides his head is injured. He glances down at his midriff, where congealed blood has formed around a huge blaster wound. Before he got knocked unconscious, the guards had clearly been aiming to debilitate him in a more painful way. There are also heavy bruises littering his body, undoubtedly the result of kicks and punches that were delivered after he was knocked out. Scott knew better than to expect easy treatment from Imperial guards, but he can’t help but feel a little afraid of what exactly is in store for him in the future if these injuries are just the result of an attempt to subdue him.

Scott forces himself to sit up from the cold floor he woke up on, impatiently wiping away at the tears of pain that form in his eyes. Without high expectations, he begins to search himself for his lightsaber. They’ve taken it, along with the maps and key cards that he had.

Scott sighs. At least they were all encrypted, so the likelihood of the Empire breaking them is pretty low. As for the current mission, he can only hope that Stiles was able to get to Malia and either finish the mission or escape back to the Rebels.

Scott drops his head back and it thumps lightly against the wall behind him. He winces, the pain feeling more intense than it should be because of his head injury. He wishes that he had managed to stop Stiles before he ran out of the closet, not that it would have made much of a difference. But if only he had had a few seconds longer, he might have been able to finish the conversation with Stiles properly. They shouldn’t have been having an argument in that time and place to begin with, but Scott wishes that there had been more time to talk. He tells himself that he could have explained his own feelings better, and maybe if he had, Stiles wouldn’t have stormed off.

It doesn’t matter now. Stiles is far away, hopefully safe. All Scott can do now is stay put and hope that he gets the opportunity to escape sometime soon. If only he could get to a shipyard, he’s sure he could steal a vessel to fly back to the Rebels.

_ Sure _ , Scott thinks.  _ Escaping from a cell in the heart of the Empire should be easy. Because so many people have managed it before. _

The cell that Scott’s being held in is completely bare. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s going to have to do when he has to urinate, but he shoves the thought aside for later. The door is heavy-looking, with no handle on the inside and with a very small, thick window at eye-level. Scott begins to try and use the Force to get a feel for the physical composition of the cell, when a shout from outside his door jolts him.

“Hey!” someone barks loudly, and in response a series of blasts go off.

Scott scrambles off the cot, making his way to the door to try and see through the window. It’s not wide enough to allow him to see anything beyond the wall that’s directly in front of him, though.

Suddenly, wide hazel eyes appear, looking frantically into Scott’s own. Scott jumps in surprise, and in the moment that it takes him to recognize Stiles, the door has blasted inward, its outer handle fried and Stiles’ blaster still levelled at it.

“Scotty,” Stiles breathes, and holsters his blaster without looking away from Scott’s face. “Are you okay?”

Scott stares with shock at Stiles, whose appearance is dishevelled and whose eyes are desperate. He can’t quite register what’s going on, or understand how Stiles could be here, in this moment.

“What–” Scott begins. “How– How did you–”

Stiles takes a few steps forward, raising a hand toward the gash on Scott’s forehead as if unconsciously. He stops himself just short of touching it, then glances down at Scott’s stomach. His movements have reopened the wound, and blood has started to sluggishly pour out of it again.  

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Stiles says. “You’re in–”

“ _ How _ ?” Scott asks, desperate.

Stiles looks back into Scott’s face, his features changed into ones of confusion.

“Scott,” he says slowly, as if he’s talking to someone who’s speaking nonsense. Maybe Scott  _ is _ speaking nonsense, he thinks; he feels like in the span of a few short moments he’s dropped into a universe where nothing makes sense. “I wasn’t going to leave you. Not  _ ever _ . You think I don’t know how to break my– how to break someone out of a prison? I’m literally a pirate.”

Scott isn’t sure if it’s his injuries or something else, but he feels a strange light feeling overwhelm him.

“Privateer,” he corrects softly, and before Stiles can reply, he closes the small distance between them to press a kiss to Stiles’ lips.

Stiles seems to gasp into Scott’s mouth, the warmth of him seeping into Scott effortlessly. Scott is initially hesitant, but Stiles quickly reciprocates, cupping his hand behind Scott’s neck to pull him in closer.

It feels dizzying, the press of Stiles’ mouth against Scott’s. All thoughts about the strangeness of the circumstance, about the fact that they’re in an Imperial cell and Stiles looks like he’s just been through a small war and Scott feels a little faint and  _ he’s kissing Stiles _ – they all fall away. Because Scott is kissing Stiles, and beyond that, nothing else seems to matter so much.

Scott is lost in the kiss, so much so that he nearly doesn’t realize it when his knees begin to go weak under him. Stiles does, though. He pulls away from Scott reluctantly, only to wrap an arm around his waist to help hold him up.

“We really do have to get you out of here,” Stiles says, his voice a little weak. “But after that… after that, we’re definitely continuing this… um, conversation.”

 

* * *

Malia raises a hand to let the bio-scanner read it. She’s made it to the outside of the Imperial chambers with no run-ins, relying on her uniform and confidence to get past people without arousing suspicion. She only hopes that once Scott and Stiles realize they won’t be able to get past the scanners, they have the sense to get back to the ship.

She couldn’t have told them about the scanners without telling them about– well, about everything else. And that wasn’t something she had felt up for, extenuating circumstances or not. Besides, she reasons, Peter Hale will be dead within a few minutes anyway.

The scanner beeps and the door promptly opens itself for a member of the Imperial bloodline.

Malia enters the chambers, closing the door firmly behind her and immediately looking for a place to hide the weapon. It’s a small cylinder, just a few inches long. She wishes she could stick around to see it go off and send a poisonous injection flying at Peter’s face.

Malia finally decides on hiding it in a patch of exotic-looking flowers on a nearby table. She carefully sets it between stems, pressing the switch that will make it start scanning the room regularly for Peter. She waits a moment for the confirmation light to blink.

It doesn’t.

Malia furrows her brow, leaning closer and flicking the switch off and back on again.

Nothing happens.

Malia takes the weapon out and turns around to begin examining it properly. In that moment, the doors to the chambers open, and the Emperor enters.

Annoyed and impatient, Malia throws the malfunctioning weapon away and pulls out her blaster, levelling it at Peter’s head.

“Don’t move,” she growls.

Peter’s eyes widen with surprise.

A long silence settles between them. Malia can feel her heart pounding. She adjusts her grip on the blaster, holding it steady with both hands. The door automatically clicks shut behind Peter.

“Well,” he says finally. “I’d ask who you are, but it seems pretty clear. Only a Hale could get into this room.”

Malia’s jaw squares.

“I’m not a Hale,” she says through clenched teeth. She takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between them.

“Malia,” Peter says, ignoring her words. He glances from her face to her blaster and back again. “Surely you don’t need that. Not to talk to me.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Malia says. “If you know my name then you know what happened to the captain of the  _ Desert Wolf _ .”

Peter’s eyes flare with recognition for the briefest of moments. Malia smirks.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know this was coming,” she says.

“I have to admit–” he starts, shifting as though to take a step forward himself.

“Don’t move!” Malia barks.

Peter freezes, giving her a searching look. He slowly raises his arms, in some type of surrender that doesn’t much look like surrender.

“All right,” he says. “All right. But I can help you, Malia. You don’t have to kill me. I could get that tracking device removed.”

Malia’s gaze drops in surprise to her left arm, where he somehow must have spotted the thin scar that marks where the Rebels implanted her. She looks back up into Peter’s face, and it’s lit with triumph.

“I knew it,” he says. “I knew you’d never come here unless you were forced to. You’re a survivor, Malia. You’re smart.”

“Smart enough not to get tricked by you,” Malia says. But she’s shaken by how quickly he figured it out. She was never supposed to have to see him, she was never supposed to talk to him before she killed him. Malia knows that she should just pull the trigger now, get it over with. But something holds her back.

“It’s not a trick, Malia,” Peter says softly. “I could protect you from the Rebels. More than that– you’re Imperial royalty by rights. My one, proper heir. Malia, I’ve wanted this day to come for a long time. I’ve wanted to make up for what she did to you.”

Malia shakes her head as if to shake away his words.

“You’re worse than she was,” she says. She has to remember that, in this moment when he’s speaking to her with that benign tone. “You’re a monster.”

Peter spreads his hands, still held up defensively. He looks younger like that, not like a monster, but almost like a–

“Let me show you what I could give you,” he says. “What we could do together.”

His eyes are warm and sincere. He takes a step forward, toward her, his arms outstretched. If she just took a few steps forward herself, if she just met him in the middle– 

“Stop,” Malia chokes out. Her grip on the blaster feels tenuous.

Peter stops, his face morphing into a confused expression. Morphing, Malia thinks, because that’s what Peter does. That’s what Peter is.

“The Rebel implant doesn’t matter,” Malia says, strength returning to her voice and hands as she talks. “I’d be here to kill you with or without it. I’d never join you.”

In a moment, Peter grimaces angrily, and the change is as quick and absolute as a light switching.

“You’d never do it,” Peter says lowly. “Kill the last of your family, Malia? Your real family, I mean. I’m your fath–”

Malia pulls the trigger, shooting a blast directly into his face. Unable to stop herself, she shoots a second time, and a third, before his body collapses to the ground. 

Malia lowers her blaster, taking in a deep breath and closing the distance between herself and the corpse. She looks down at the mangled remains of Emperor Peter Hale.

“You’re not my father,” she says.

 

* * *

 

All hell has broken loose, and Stiles can’t tell if it’s because of their successful prison break or if something else is going on. He’s got Scott’s arm around his shoulder and is supporting Scott’s waist as they try to sneak through the endless hallways of the palace. The only reason they get away with it is because everyone around them is panicking. Guards keep sprinting past, looking totally consumed by their destinations, as nobles talk frantically among themselves, moving in the opposite direction of the guards as quickly as their elaborate robes will let them. For once in this day, no one is concerned with two servants, even if one is heavily injured.

“What the hell’s going on?” Stiles mutters.

“National emergency,” Scott hisses, pressing his free hand against his stomach wound. “That’s what those alarms mean.”

“Malia,” Stiles says, suddenly realizing what Scott must have already guessed. “Do you think she–?”

“We have to find her,” Scott says.

Stiles glances at Scott’s profile as they clamber along. His face is littered with heavy bruises and cuts. As if the blast wound wasn’t bad enough, he keeps wincing away from light sources and can barely stay on his feet.

“I’m getting you out of here first,” Stiles says, and tugs them into the kitchens as they finally arrive back where they came from. The kitchens are full of other servants, who are all gathered around a pale-faced woman.

“Three shots,” she says. “I swear I heard three–”

Scott pulls himself out of Stiles’ grip with effort as they finally get to the entrance to the sewers.

“No way,” Scott protests. “I’m not leaving you here, I have to come with you–”

Before Stiles can answer, screams break out from the group behind them.

“Someone catch her!” a man cries, and Stiles whirls around in time to see Malia burst into the kitchens, closely followed by an army of Imperial guards. She roughly shoves her way through the crowd of servants and toward Scott and Stiles, who are staring at her, slack-jawed.

“ _ Move _ !” she yells, and pushes Stiles into Scott. They jerk into movement, Stiles lowering Scott as gently as he can into the entrance even as he feels the heat of the blasts that just barely miss his body. Malia blocks him from the brunt of it, standing over him and Scott and firing shot for shot.

As soon as Scott’s safely underground, Stiles wraps an arm around Malia’s waist and tugs her with him down into the sewer. She grunts with surprise, but there’s no time to say anything as they gather themselves and Scott up and begin to run through the puddles of filth. The sound of barking orders and guards scrambling into the sewer themselves echoes behind them. Stiles forces himself not to look back, running as fast as he can while half-carrying Scott with him.

If the walk through the sewer seemed long earlier today, that was nothing compared to the time it feels it must take while they run. Increasingly sure that they must get caught, that the Imperial guards must be breathing down their necks at this very moment, Stiles starts to gasp for breath. He doesn’t know how much longer he can make it, even as he simultaneously knows that he  _ has _ to make it if he’s going to save Scott.

“We’re almost there,” Malia says, as if she can tell what Stiles is thinking. “We’re close.”

Sure enough, in that moment the Coruscant sunlight becomes visible up ahead. Malia moves around and behind Stiles to take Scott’s other side, and between them they run him forward as fast as they can.

When they’re finally, finally out, Stiles feels himself get an extra surge of strength. Malia runs ahead to jump start the ship as Stiles leads a stumbling and nearly unconscious Scott forward.

“Almost there, buddy,” Stiles says, even though he can hardly speak for the breath he’s spent.

“Get in, get in, get in,” Malia calls from the cockpit, and Stiles pushes Scott ahead of him into the ship, following close behind. The ship is already taking shots from the guards who’ve caught up with them. Scott barely lowers himself onto a bench before he’s properly passed out, and Stiles falls backwards onto his ass with exhaustion. But it doesn’t matter. They’re inside. They made it. Malia is flying them away.

Stiles gasps for breath for a few long minutes, until he finally feels like he can stand again. He checks on Scott, adjusts him to be as comfortable as possible, and then makes his way to the front of the ship.

“Hey, Malia?” he says, his voice hoarse.

Malia glances back at him. She looks utterly exhausted, in more ways than one, and Stiles knows that they’re going to need to talk about exactly what happened back there at some point. But for now, well…

“We’ve  _ gotta _ start being more selective about our clientele.”

 

* * *

By the time they arrive back at the Rebel base, it’s in chaos.

Malia had managed to contact them en route, letting them know that the Emperor was dead and they had all made it out of the palace.  _ And we expect to have a meeting with the president as soon as we land _ , Malia had added.

_ At least the Rebels seem to be willing to listen when they get good news _ , Stiles thinks as they land. They’re greeted by an enormous crowd of Rebel personnel, some of whom, like Morrell, are there in an official capacity, and many of whom appear to simply be curious onlookers.

Stiles only looks out at them briefly before returning his nervous glance to Scott, over whom he’s been hovering for most of the trip. Scott came back to consciousness relatively soon after fainting, but there’s no denying that despite his claims to the contrary, he looks bad. His injuries need to be treated as soon as possible, Stiles thinks. They didn’t just commit an absurdly death-defying mission for Scott to be in danger. He’ll be fine. He has to be fine.

When the ship is finally completely landed, Malia makes her way quickly out of the cockpit and toward Stiles and Scott.

“I’ve got him,” Stiles says, and ducks his shoulders under Scott’s arm to lift him up. Scott is heavy and groggy enough that he doesn’t try and walk on his own. Stiles glances up at Malia, who spares a worried glance before leading the way off the ship.

The crowd’s chatter becomes deafening once they’re on the ground. Even if all of the Rebels don’t yet know that the Emperor is dead, they’ve heard enough rumors to think it might be possible. Stiles focuses on not stumbling with Scott as Malia steps forward towards Morrell. The president has an uncharacteristic smile on her face.

“Congratulations on a successful mission,” she says, her voice warmer than Stiles has ever heard it.

“Congratulate me by taking this thing out of my arm,” Malia says shortly.

“Of course,” Morrell says. She waves a hand, and two of the people flanking her– Rebel technicians, by the look of their uniforms– step forward. “Follow me and I’ll personally oversee the surgery.”

Malia glances back at Stiles, who gives her a nod. She still looks skeptical.

“Go,” Stiles says. “We’re fine.”

As Malia and Morrell walk away, Stiles suddenly feels Scott’s weight dipping. He readjusts his grip, glancing at Scott only to see that his eyes are shut and he’s quickly getting too heavy for Stiles to hold up.

“Hey, he’s fainting!” Stiles yells. “I need some help over here!”

The crowd around him gets louder, even as several medical officers rush forward to help. Stiles lowers Scott to the ground as gently as he can, trying to drown out the voices long enough to check Scott’s breathing. It’s shaky, but still clearly perceptible, and Stiles lets out a shaky breath of relief himself. He rests a hand on Scott’s chest.

“You’re gonna be fine, Scotty,” Stiles says. “I’ve got you, okay?”

Another hand presses over Stiles’ own. Stiles glances up into the face of the medic who’s kneeling across from him.

 

* * *

 

Scott wakes up from unconsciousness for the third time in as many hours, and decides that it’s not an experience he ever feels like having again.

He tries to blink his eyes open, but the light around him is too bright. He must be in one of the medbays, then. Jedi don’t usually end up in the care of the Rebels unless it’s an emergency. In fact, Scott’s surprised that they didn’t ship him off to see the Council as soon as his condition was stabilized.

He lifts a heavy hand to cover his eyes and tries to remember when he lost consciousness. He has a vague recollection of getting to the Rebel base, but after that it quickly blurs into uncertainty.

“Master Scott?” someone asks.

Scott frowns and begins blinking his eyes open again despite the light. When his vision finally clears, he sees a young man in a Rebel medic uniform standing over his bed.

“How are you feeling?” the man asks. He’s scanning data from a chart at the end of the bed and glances up when he feels Scott’s gaze on him.

“My name is Danny. We’ve been treating you for your injuries and a concussion.”

“Oh,” Scott says.

“You’ve been unconscious for a few hours,” Danny continues, lifting the sheet over Scott’s body to look at his bandaged midriff.

“How soon will I be better again?” Scott asks.

Danny shakes his head even as he begins shining a small light into and then away from Scott’s eyeline.

“You’re stable for now, but it’s going to be at least a week before you can get cleared to leave.”

Scott decides he’ll have to contact Alan about getting back to a Jedi enclave sooner than that. He glances around the rest of the medbay and sees that Mason is sleeping a few beds over.

“How’s he doing?” Scott asks. Danny follows Scott’s sight to Mason and straightens from his crouch.

“He’ll be okay. At this point he just needs time to regrow the skin tissue,” Danny says.

Scott looks back at Danny, the sight of Mason making him feel foolish for not having immediately asked.

“Are Stiles and Malia okay? What’s happened since we got back? Will the Rebels launch an offense? Has the Empire named the successor?”

Danny holds up the hand that isn’t cradling a data projector.

“I’m not authorized to know what the president is planning. But the privateers are fine. I heard the captain got the tracker taken out of her and everything. And now that you’re awake, you have some people who’ve been waiting to see you.”

Scott tries not to let his heart skitter with hope.

Stiles is probably long gone by now. He’s already saved Scott’s life today. There would be no reason for him to wait around with the Rebels that he hates just to see Scott one last time. Besides, it was already more than enough for him to have gotten Scott to safety, endangering himself and Malia in the process. Scott doesn’t expect–

Danny enters a code into his data projector and the door to the medbay automatically opens. A moment later, Stiles is walking through the door– Scott’s heart leaps– and next to him is–

Scott feels his lungs close up.

A woman, her hair dark and long and curly, her face as familiar in this moment as it is every time Scott dreams of it, her eyes welling with tears, runs forward toward him.

She’s kneeling next to him in an instant, and Scott only has the time to think of sitting up before she’s taken his face in her shaking hands. She looks down at him as if he’s going to disappear at any moment.

“Mom,” Scott says. He raises himself up to a sitting position, ignorant of the pain that flares in his body. His voice cracks against his will as he speaks.

That one word is all it takes for Melissa to begin fully crying. Tears rush down her cheeks and she chokes on sobs as she throws her arms around Scott, pulling him into a hug that should hurt, but somehow doesn’t.

Scott isn’t sure how long they sit like that, with the both of them crying and holding each other. He later registers that Danny has left, that Stiles has stayed on the far end of the room near the door to give them some privacy.

It’s Melissa who finally gently pulls away, taking in a shaky breath and wiping at her face.

“Scott,” she says, still kneeling and seemingly unaware of the discomfort her position must be causing her. “I never stopped looking for you.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say. The thoughts that rush through his head–  _ you didn’t need to _ and  _ finally _ and  _ I’ve been happy _ and  _ I missed you so much _ all clashing against each other– they’re all true, but none of them are right.

“I spent years trying to find where they were keeping you,” Melissa says. Now that he’s looking at her up close, Scott can see how she looks different from the mother of that brief portion of his childhood. There are creases under and beside her eyes, more gray hairs on her head spread out amidst the black than he can count. She looks older than Scott knows she is.

Trying to find the Jedi… it was a completely hopeless task. It could never happen. They were too paranoid, too insular, too hated by the endless populations of entire galaxies to ever allow themselves to be found. Melissa had to have known that it was impossible. She could never have found them.

“Deaton, your–” Melissa stops herself. What was she going to say?  _ Master _ ?  _ Mentor _ ?  _ Father _ ? Scott doesn’t know if she understands what Alan is to him, or if she ever will. How much resentment will she feel when she realizes that Alan stood in for her? That long after the man who used to be Scott’s father had left them, long after she herself had been left behind, Alan was the one who raised her son? Could she ever look at him and feel anything but fury, regret, misplaced self-reproach?

“Deaton found me when you were on your mission,” she continues. She’s clasping Scott’s hand between her own as if to prevent him from leaving. “He– He says that he was looking for me for a long time. Since he got on the Council.”

Scott exhales deeply. It should be more of a shock, that Alan would have been trying to reunite him with his mother. It was treasonous. If anyone ever found out, it would cost him everything he had worked so hard to achieve.

But…  _ Master mentor father _ . This was Alan. Of course he found Melissa.

“You’re wearing a medic uniform,” Scott says, and he could kick himself that that’s the first thing to come out of his mouth.

Melissa just laughs, though, tears still glistening in her eyes.

“I’m a medic,” she says. “As I travelled, I treated civilians who needed it.”

She looks suddenly hesitant, but continues after a short pause.

“From what Deaton told me, it– it sounds like you do something similar. Helping people, I mean.”

Scott doesn’t know how she’s saying it, how she could acknowledge the things that he’s done as a member of the Order that took her only child away. He can see in her eyes how difficult it is for her. He feels warmth well in his chest.

“I try,” he says. “I’ve tried hard to help people, Mom.”

Melissa nods, looking down and adjusting her grip on his hand. When she looks up again, he can see the range of her feelings in her face, feel it flowing through the Force. She’s furious. She hates the Jedi more than anyone can hate anything in the world. She’s so broken by the grief she felt for years and years that she can hardly stand it. But despite the roaring in her ears, she looks into Scott’s eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says.

Scott didn’t think he could cry any more, but he does.

 

* * *

 

Stiles leaves the medbay as quietly as he can. Not that he really needs to. He thinks a bomb could go off and neither Scott nor Melissa would be humanly capable of noticing it. He feels his heart twist at the thought.

Selfishly– so, so horrifyingly selfishly– some part of Stiles wishes that he could have seen Scott before he reunited with his mother. Stiles wants to punch himself for the thought, for even considering in the darkest part of his want the notion of keeping Melissa away from her son for a minute longer than necessary.

But Stiles can’t stop thinking about the feeling of Scott going slack in his arms. He can’t stop remembering that terrifying moment before he realized that Scott was still breathing and his heart was still pounding. He knows objectively that Scott is going to recover. God knows he harried Danny about it enough to have his words ingrained in his mind, repeating like a mantra:  _ he’s going to be fine _ . But all Stiles wants is to see Scott for himself, properly, up close. Just to make sure.

Stiles shakes his head as if to shake away his thoughts. He shoves his hands in the pockets of the Rebel uniform he changed into after Malia’s surgery. He’s not especially fond of it, but it’s better than the fake Imperial outfit, which had gotten him all manner of odd looks as he wandered the halls of the medbay.

He makes his way to the meeting room where he knows Malia is with Morrell and the cabinet and generals. He had told Malia he’d return once he made sure that Scott was awake and all right. Malia’s arm had recovered fine from the removal of the tracking device, and she had insisted on having a meeting immediately with the Rebel leaders.

Stiles ducks into the room as former Lady Allison Argent is speaking.

“–that the old rivalry will get rekindled very quickly,” she says.

“But with the information you gave us, we’ve already weakened your family’s support among the nobles,” Morrell says. “By the time any moves can be made in earnest, the Argents will have little to no backing.”

Stiles catches Malia’s eye and edges past a few uniforms to stand by her side. She leans over to mutter a quick explanation to him as Morrell continues to speak.

“With the emperor dead, Coruscant’s going to be the front line for a war among the Imperials over the power vacuum that’s been left over,” she says. “The main contenders are Hale’s heirs and the second most powerful family, the Argents.”

“Heirs?” Stiles asks quietly. “Peter Hale didn’t have any children.”

Malia’s body stiffens and she looks away. Stiles stares at her in confusion, but before he can say anything, she murmurs, “He has a nephew and niece.”

“That’s right,” Argent says loudly. Stiles looks up to realize that they’ve caught the attention of the room. “Derek and Cora Hale. They might be the key to finishing the Empire from the inside.”

“What, they’re turn-coats too?” Someone asks testily. When he looks at the source of the voice, Stiles recognizes the Rebel who collected an injured Mason from the docks of Bespin– Liam was his name. Liam is openly glaring at Argent from across the room. “You expect us to believe your entire generation just decided to switch sides for the fun of it?”

Argent returns Liam’s look with a cool, unimpressed one.

“No,” she says flatly. “They’re not on the side of the Rebellion. Derek Hale might want the power that would come with taking his place as heir apparent, but he’s never expressed an interest in– or frankly, a talent for– politics. That’s where we can turn him to our advantage.”

“We’re supposed to give him a better offer than the crown?” Morrell asks dubiously.

Argent shakes her head.

“Easier than that,” she says. “It’s common knowledge that most of the Hale family, including Derek and Cora’s parents and siblings, were killed in a fire several years ago. What’s only known in certain Imperial circles, though, is that the fire was an attempt by the Argents to wipe out the entire Hale dynasty. Peter may have eventually won the struggle for the throne, but Derek never forgot the price that they paid for it.”

For the first time since Stiles has met her, Morrell looks unambiguously surprised. She nods for Argent to continue.

“Derek and I weren’t exactly childhood friends,” Argent says, her tone wry. “But I know him well enough to know that the last thing he wants is for himself or his only remaining sister to get gunned down by the Argents like the rest of their family. Derek knows that his position puts them at enormous risk of assassination. If we could persuade him that joining the Rebels against the Empire would mean safety for Cora and himself…”

“He’d go rogue,” Morrell finishes.

Several of her generals nod in approval. A few of the Rebels express a range of negative responses, all the way from the merely skeptical to Liam, with his still-unabated anger.

“So what if he does?” Liam asks loudly. Morrell glances at him, her face impassive. “Does that mean he and his sister just get off free? Why stop there, why not give all the Imperials a chance to jump ship?”

Many of the other Rebels are shaking their heads, and Stiles can tell Liam has been pushing his luck for some time now. Liam’s hands are clenched into fists at his side, the bags under his eyes prominent and the wrinkles in his uniform an unnecessary confirmation of the fact that he hasn’t been sleeping or following Rebel regulations.

“Liam,” a woman next to him murmurs. She tucks a long lock of dark hair behind her ear, trying to catch his eye even as he continues to glare at Argent. “Why don’t you go visit Mason? He’s–”

“Why should any of them be pardoned?” Liam insists, ignoring his friend. Argent straightens up, returning Liam’s glare. “Just because they realized they were on the brink of being destroyed and wanted to save themselves? Does that mean we’re just going to let them in, let them take over?”

Morrell opens her mouth to cut in, but before she can, Argent has banged a fist on the table in front of her. Stiles flails in surprise, to his embarrassment, not having realized exactly how angry Liam’s rant was making Argent. Her face is white and her lips are a thin line. It’s barely perceptible, but her hands are trembling with feeling.

“If it weren’t for me, you never would have gotten close enough to  _ touch _ Peter Hale,” Argent barks. “If it weren’t for me, you never would have undermined my family’s influence with the nobles. I’ve left my home, gotten myself branded an enemy of the state, and betrayed not just my own parents but my grandfather and my aunt, too. You will  _ not _ question my loyalty or my motives.”

Liam looks some complicated combination of mildly abashed and mostly unrepentant. He visibly fights with himself for a long, tense moment, as the rest of the room stares in silence between him and Argent.

Finally, Liam simply turns and walks out of the room. Morrell raises an eyebrow at Liam’s friend, who straightens where she stands.

“Please excuse him, Ma’am,” she says simply, staring at Morrell and only briefly glancing in Argent’s direction. “He’s just been worried about–”

“Worried about his boyfriend, I know,” Argent says. She’s calmed considerably, and begins shuffling the holos in front of her busily. “And you know that I’m sorry for what happened to Mason, Hayden, but it wasn’t my fault, and it’s no excuse–”

The Rebels all tense, a few sharing significant glances amongst one another. Hayden’s eyes widen with concern. The reaction is founded, Stiles thinks, if what Argent said is true.

Following the lead of the Jedi, the Rebellion has recently begun forbidding romantic attachments of any sort in their troops. What is seen as antithetical to Jedi philosophy is primarily an inconvenience for the Rebels. Entanglements between partners like Mason and Liam are especially frowned upon, since they’re seen as a threat to troops’ loyalty to their commanders.

The new policy is one of the reasons why negative perception of the Jedi is at an all-time high among civilians. People, Stiles included, blame the Jedi for having come up with the idea of banning romantic attachments in the first place.

“No, you misunderstand,” Hayden says quickly. “Mason and Liam aren’t– There’s nothing going on–”

Morrell raises a hand in the air, abruptly cutting Hayden off. Hayden stares at her, biting her bottom lip seemingly unconsciously. Morrell shakes her head, her eyes narrowed with barely perceptible annoyance.

“We’ve wasted more than enough time with this,” Morrell says. “To the point at hand: I fully support the plan to use Derek Hale as an insider. It will mean less unnecessary bloodshed and, we can hope, a faster resolution. I move that we vote on the matter.”

“Seconded,” one of her advisors replies promptly. Stiles glances at Argent, wondering if she has a vote. She seems unconcerned, her shoulders straightening expectantly.

“Those in favor?” Morrell says. She and Argent raise their hands, along with a clear majority of the room. A few, mostly those whose hands are not up, raise their eyebrows at Argent, but Morrell nods in acknowledgment and it becomes clear that no one wants to voice an objection to Argent’s official inclusion.

Stiles ducks out of the crowd and toward the door as the vote finishes and the meeting ends. Malia glances after him, but he gives her a reassuring wave as she gets swept up in conversation with Morrell and Argent.

It’s strange to see her working with them, and doing it so well. Stiles can tell that something is different about her, but he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance to talk to her privately now that she’s in such demand with the Rebels. Unlike them, or at least their leaders, Stiles still doesn’t know what exactly happened when she killed Hale. A familiar flare of jealousy sparks in him, and he can’t help but feel a little bitter at the idea that Malia has become so quickly invested in their politics.

Stiles finds himself outside the medbay doors, having walked there without realizing it as he was consumed with thoughts about Malia. Hesitantly, he pushes inside, though he highly doubts he’ll find Scott alone.

He’s right. Melissa is sitting at Scott’s bedside, but as Stiles quietly walks toward them, he realizes that Melissa has fallen asleep in her chair, her head pillowed on her arms and resting on the bed. Stiles meets Scott’s eyes, surprised to see that he himself is still awake. Scott sits up a little straighter, as much as he can without jostling Melissa, and beckons Stiles closer.

Stiles comes around to the other side of Scott’s bed, lowering himself onto the chair there slowly. He wants nothing more than to sweep Scott into a hug, but the combination of Scott’s injuries and Melissa’s exhausted sleep makes him realize that pragmatically, he’s better not to do so. Scott is looking at him expectantly, his brown eyes glowing with warmth despite the exhaustion on his own face. Unable to keep himself from doing it, Stiles reaches forward to take one of Scott’s hands in his own.

Scott beams and squeezes Stiles’ hand. Stiles looks down to where their hands now rest in Scott’s lap, suddenly unable to meet Scott’s gaze.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks.

“Fine,” Scott replies immediately, and Stiles scoffs. He finds himself looking back up, and Scott’s smile widens as their eyes meet. “You saved me.”

Stiles feels his face warm with embarrassment. Scott shouldn’t be so grateful for someone rescuing him, like any decent person would do. Like any Jedi, especially,  _ should _ do, if they took their apparent responsibilities so seriously. He wonders if Scott is grateful because no one has ever done that for him before, or if—

“This has been kind of an overwhelming day,” Scott says. He hasn’t stopped smiling, and Stiles realizes for the first time that he hasn’t seen Scott express emotions of any kind this openly since they were children. Scott’s eyes and face are clearly still puffy from crying, and Stiles catches him shoot a quick glance at Melissa almost automatically, as if to double-check and make sure that she’s still there. Still, he keeps smiling broadly, his eyes shining with feeling, as if he can’t help himself.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies.  _ Overwhelming _ . He’s been consumed by his own problems over the past few days– the shock of reuniting with Scott, the anger underlying their arguments, the worry when Scott was kidnapped and injured, not to mention everything that’s been going on with Malia and the Rebels– but on top of everything else, Scott has just seen his mother for the first time in decades. It’s no wonder he can’t seem to contain himself in the Jedi fashion anymore.

“I should–” Stiles begins, tensing to get up and pull his hand away. What is he doing here? What right does he have to be here right now?

Scott’s hand tightens on his own for a moment, and his face falls.

“No,” Scott says. “I didn’t mean it like– Stay. Please.”

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Melissa is waking up. Her head slowly rises as she rubs a hand over her face. When she sees Stiles half-standing over Scott, she smiles.

“Stiles,” Melissa says, straightening up fully. “I’m so glad you’re here. How do you feel?”

The question takes Stiles off guard.

“Fine,” he says awkwardly, trying not to move for fear of drawing her attention to where his hand is still intertwined with Scott’s. “I didn’t get hurt, so–”

“Sit,” Melissa says, pleasantly but firmly. Stiles drops back into his chair, and from the corner of his eye he sees Scott subtly brighten.

“I have to go give my report to the president,” she continues. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” The latter is directed toward Scott, who leans forward to accept a long, fierce hug from Melissa as she stands to leave. Before she turns away, Melissa glances pointedly from where Scott is still holding Stiles’ hand to Stiles’ eyes.

“I know you’ll take good care of him,” she says simply. Stiles feels himself flushing at the memory of her tearful gratitude when he had told her about the mission. Before he can reply, she’s already walking out the door.

 

* * *

 

Seeing Stiles again, up close, makes Scott’s body course with unexpected adrenaline. He’s just–  _ there _ , dressed in a Rebel uniform but his face still flush, Scott can only assume, from the excitement of the mission.

Scott can’t help but feel relieved that Stiles is staying, even if only for a few minutes. It occurs to him that Stiles might have just left while Scott was still unconscious or, more likely, while he and Melissa were talking. The mission is over, after all. Malia must have gotten her tracking device removed by now, and they’re all going to recover from their injuries. There’s really nothing pressing to keep Stiles here, Scott realizes, and the thought makes him tighten his grip the smallest bit on Stiles’ hand.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Is Malia–”

“We’re fine,” Stiles says. “Morrell got the tracker out of Malia’s arm. Neither of us got hurt like you.”

“Good,” Scott says. Stiles isn’t quite meeting his eyes, and Scott takes it as a confirmation of his fear– Stiles is about to leave. “Stiles, I just… Thank you. You saved me when you didn’t have to, when it might have gotten you killed.”

This makes Stiles look up.

“Of course I did,” he says firmly. “I never would’ve left you behind.”

This time Scott is the one who glances down, unable to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“I’m glad you came to say goodbye before you left,” he finally says, his instinct beating out his better judgment.

“Left?”

When Scott looks up, Stiles is staring at him with puzzlement.

“Now that you’re free to go…” Scott says, trailing off.

“No way,” Stiles says, catching on. “Scott. I’m not leaving until you’re recovered. You’re still in the  _ medbay _ . I need to make sure you’re okay before…”

Stiles shrugs, looking uncomfortable and uncertain.

It’s obviously a relief, in a way. The fact that Stiles cares enough to want to stay on a base full of Rebels for Scott’s sake is not just touching, but encouraging. But Stiles’ face seems to belie the good news. He’s clearly bracing himself to say something that he doesn’t want to say.

“About what happened in the jail cell,” Stiles finally mutters. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to say that I get that it was the heat of the moment.”

Stiles stiffens in his seat and can’t keep a bitter tone out of his next words.

“I know the Jedi forbid romantic attachments. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.”

“Stiles,” Scott says. His heart has lightened with each word, despite the fact that Stiles says them like they’re painful. Stiles shrugs in response, but Scott continues. “It wasn’t the heat of the moment. I mean, maybe it was, but… And anyway, I didn’t go on a suicide mission with a couple of Rebel privateers to assassinate the Emperor only to come back and be told that I can’t have a relationship.”

Surprised, Stiles deflates the slightest bit. He furrows his brow with confusion.

“What do you–”

“Alan always said that the time when we’re most likely to be successful with our reform efforts would be after the fall of the Empire,” Scott says. “The Jedi and the Rebels will have to make major internal changes if they’re going to unite the galaxy under a New Republic. I’m going to work with Alan to fight for change within the Council, including abolishing the fraternization policy.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Are you serious? You think you can do that?”

Scott shrugs, a smile spreading over his face. “I’m willing to try. And if you are too, if you’re willing to try this with me…”

Stiles leans forward to press a burning kiss onto Scott’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

Malia paces the length of the room that the Rebels have given her to sleep in. She’s left the door only halfway open, knowing what’s coming.

Stiles lets himself in without bothering to knock. They know each other well enough not to bother with formalities.

Malia glances up as Stiles enters, not wavering in her pace. She rounds at the wall, beginning to walk back across the room again.

“How’s Scott?” she asks.

Stiles stands just inside the door. She can feel him staring at her, as if he could read her mind if he only looked hard enough.

“Fine,” he says eventually. She can tell that there’s more to the story just from his tone of voice– he hasn’t sounded this suppressedly happy in a long time– but Stiles is being uncharacteristically succinct. “He’s going to be okay. How are you?”

Malia doesn’t look up, but finds herself coming to a sudden stop where she’s standing.

“Fine,” she says. She can’t meet his eyes.

A few long, silent seconds stretch out between them, until finally Malia can hear Stiles walk forward to stand in front of her. She looks down at their matching regulation Rebel boots.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Stiles asks. He’s using the gentlest voice that Malia thinks either of them has ever used with the other. She doesn’t know if she should be grateful or annoyed.

Malia runs her hands over her face, then roughly rakes them through her hair. She has to. Stiles, of all people, has the most right to know. He’s the person she cares the most about in the whole galaxy, her partner in crime. It’s past time that she told him.

“I killed Peter Hale,” she says, keeping her eyes to the ground.

Stiles makes a sound that’s clearly a poor attempt to stifle a laugh.

“I– I know, Malia. I kind of guessed as much.”

Malia can’t blame him for his amusement. But she doesn’t know how to say the part that isn’t obvious. She forces herself to look up into Stiles’ eyes, her own gaze steady.

“Peter Hale was my father.”

Stiles stares at Malia, his face frozen in the halfway smile he was wearing a moment earlier.

“My biological father,” Malia clarifies. “The parents that I told you about, my family– they adopted me. Because my biological parents were murderers, so.”

Stiles doesn’t laugh. Malia can’t stop talking now that she’s started. Her eyes are welling without her permission, but words keep spilling out of her mouth.

“Remember when I told you about the  _ Desert Wolf _ ?” she says. “Its captain was my biological mother. She was the one who killed my family when I was a child. A few months before we met, I tracked her down and killed her myself.”

The halfway smile has completely fallen off of Stiles’ face. He is blinking rapidly, but otherwise, his usually expressive face is still.

“And the reason I knew that she was the killer was because she explained it to me,” Malia continues, willing herself to slow down but unable to. “After she killed them, she said that she was my mother and she had come to kill me, but they got in her way. And I– somehow, I don’t know how, I got away from her before she could. Maybe–” she chokes out a laugh. “Maybe it was the Force. Starting to feel like that stuff might… I ran. I took my family’s ship and I just barely got away.”

There are parts Stiles doesn’t need to know, despite the fact that Malia feels like she’s spilling her guts out right now and she can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t need to know about how long she spent alone in that ship. He doesn’t need to know about what the bodies of her real mom and dad and sister looked like after they’d been gunned down. He doesn’t need to know about the doll, because there are things that he just doesn’t need to know.

“Malia,” Stiles says, the word tumbling out of his mouth. He looks lost. “What–  _ Why _ would she–”

“Why would she try to kill me,” Malia says, not bothering to make it a question. She can’t take her eyes away from Stiles’, even though she can feel herself breaking down. This can’t last for much longer before she starts crying, and once that happens she just wants it to be over. She just wants to be alone. She hasn’t been, not properly, since she killed Peter. The distraction of Marin’s plans and her unexpected desire to consult Malia about them helped keep Malia’s mind off of it for a while, but now, she feels like everything that’s happened is rushing in on her.

“I got sent off to my adopted family because of some Hale dispute,” Malia says. Stiles doesn’t point out the non sequitur, and she’s grateful for that. “The whole thing was a power play by Talia Hale, I guess. She knew Peter was a murderer and he was only going to become worse, so she had me taken away before he knew I was born. Or maybe she just didn’t want competition for the throne and was too much of a coward to kill me.”

Malia shrugs, acting as unaffected as she can despite the fact that she knows Stiles will see through it. Without breaking eye contact, Stiles reaches forward and takes one of her hands in his own, squeezing it gently.

“I got all this from my mother, before I killed her,” Malia says. Stiles’ hand stills the slightest bit, and it occurs to Malia that for Stiles, matricide isn’t the fact of life that it’s been for her over the years. She wonders, her already-pounding heart beating the slightest bit faster, if he’s ever going to trust her again.  _ My mother, before I killed her _ .  _ My father, before I killed him _ . “She told me the whole story, when I asked her why she tried to kill me. Why she– why she killed my family. Maybe she was lying. I don’t know. She was a killer. The only difference between her and Peter was that she trawled space to do it, but he could just do it from one spot.” And one other thing, Malia guesses. She was valuable to Peter. She was an heir that he thought he could control and groom for the throne. A trophy and investment, something to empower him. For her mother…

“For my mother, I was always a threat. She said, ‘The problem is you’re a loose end.’ And she didn’t believe in leaving those behind.”

Malia drops her gaze to the ground again, shame choking her into silence. She can still see her mother’s dead face, twisted into an expression of disgust. And now Peter Hale joins her, the image of his corpse engraving itself in Malia’s mind.

Malia realizes that she’s crying steadily, teardrops tracing lines down her face. She moves to draw herself out of Stiles’ grip, to turn away so she can pull herself together. But she’s barely moved before Stiles is tugging her closer, his free hand wrapping around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug.

He doesn’t need to hear the rest. For once, Stiles has no questions or comments. He’s heard enough to know, and so he does all that Malia needs him to do. He hugs her tight.

 

* * *

 

Scott wakes up to the sound of shouting from outside of the medbay. He tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, lifting himself up on his elbow to try and find the source of the sudden noise. Across the room, Mason jolts awake, his arms startling as he sits up in an instant.

“What happened?” Mason asks, even as he grits his teeth in pain. He’s been told by Danny that sudden movements will exacerbate the pain of his recovering back, and he hesitantly reaches behind him to feel the area near his spine.

“I don’t know.” Scott lifts himself up fully, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach. “If—”

The door to the medbay suddenly swings open, and Liam rushes through. The room lights up with his movement, the brightness of the overheads revealing the way that Liam’s eyes shine with excitement.

“They did it,” Liam says, before either Scott or Mason can speak. “I can’t believe they actually did it.”

In a moment, Liam is at Mason’s bedside, kissing him passionately and causing Mason to make a muffled noise of surprise. Scott glances at the door to see if anyone else was following Liam in, but the excited shouting that’s still going on outside doesn’t appear to be moving closer.

Mason gently extracts himself from Liam and asks, “Derek Hale? He took the deal?”

Liam straightens up and turns so that he’s addressing Scott as well as Mason. “He took it. Apparently tonight was the night. I think only the president and Argent knew when he would officially renounce the throne. Of course, the other Argents are still trying to mobilize a takeover, they refuse to recognize what’s happening. Things are complete chaos on Coruscant, but Rebel troops are already there to oversee the–”

Scott feels light headed, and he looks down in his lap out of habit. An old trick Stiles had taught him when they were children: you have extra fingers in dreams. Scott carefully counts, a comforting wave of calm coming over him. He looks back up at Mason and Liam, who are both beaming with shock and relief. Scott cuts Liam off, his voice soft but clear.

“The fall of the Empire.”

 

* * *

 

Being out of the medbay and back in his own designated room on the Rebel base brings with it the luxury of privacy. But it makes Scott’s still-bedridden condition all the more of an annoyance, and given his near-constant visitors, “privacy” is a relative term.

Scott doesn’t know if he should be frustrated with the fact that his injuries prevent him from being in the thick of the building of the New Republic, or if he should be grateful that he’s avoiding what Stiles calls a “bureaucratic nightmare.”

Not that Stiles himself is overly worried about contributing to the combined efforts of the Rebels and Jedi. Despite the fact that Scott feels Stiles slowly realizing their beneficial role to the galaxy, and despite the fact that Malia has been working closely with Morrell to continue the peaceful dissolving of any lingering Imperial structures, Stiles still has little interest in being involved. It worries Scott, despite Stiles’ assurances that he doesn’t plan on going anywhere until Scott is fully recovered. He doesn’t know how long Stiles can stay in one place, given the lifestyle he’s used to. He doesn’t know if it’s a fool’s dream to think that there’s anything lasting that could ever keep Stiles here.

“– his face when I called her ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’” Stiles was saying. “It was worth Morrell’s lecture about ‘no longer using Imperial titles,’ too, because I swear he nearly dropped to his knees in front of Malia right then and there.”

Scott shakes his head but can’t suppress a smile. “So all you do with your days is terrorize the former nobility into cooperation.”

Stiles shrugs and drops his hand to Scott’s thigh in a way that he probably thinks is subtle. He’s sitting to Scott’s right on the bed, and his body is so close that Scott can feel its warmth. Scott finds himself leaning in a little closer to Stiles’ face, where his lashes fan out against his cheeks and he nervously bites at a pink lip.

“You’re right,” Stiles says. “There are definitely more fun things to do around here.”

 

* * *

In the weeks that it takes for Scott to finally fully recover, he finds himself more of an active participant in the building of the New Republic than he had anticipated his condition would allow. Alan visits him almost as much as Melissa and Stiles, which is saying something. It becomes apparent that Alan plans on taking advantage of the systemic political changes already underway to spearhead reforms within the Jedi Order and the Rebellion as well. Unsurprisingly, he’s being met with fierce resistance on a number of fronts. No one wants to have to consider adding to the upheavals already underway. But Alan is firm in his arguments, and more importantly, he’s been building a strong coalition of allies over the past several years who will support him both within the Council and among the Rebel leadership.

“Marin believes that adjusting the military recruitment age will appease civilians enough,” Alan says, carefully adjusting the holo balanced on Scott’s desk. It projects a series of internal policy drafts, one of which Scott has enlarged in order to skim through it.

“There’s no way to make an equal adjustment to Jedi recruitment,” Scott says. “Force-sensitive children can’t be left alone until they come of age. They would have no way of controlling their abilities. They’d inevitably end up hurting themselves or others.”

Alan nods in agreement. “But the current mandatory system can’t be continued.”

Scott waves a hand, and the draft he was reading minimizes only to be replaced by a new one. He stares at it for a moment before he turns to look into Alan’s face.

“The Order’s mandate becomes an educational one. Force-sensitive children stay with their families but must receive Jedi training until they come of age. But the age at which they are allowed to enter Jedi service remains equivalent to the Rebels’ new recruitment standards.”

Alan considers for a long moment, turning to look back over the drafts in front of them. Then he nods and stands.

“I’ll bring it to Marin,” he says. He gives Scott a warm, proud smile, and Scott finds himself sitting up straighter. Approval from Alan has always had that effect on him.

As Alan gathers the holo, Scott catches a glimpse of Liam passing by his open door. He’s heading deeper into the private Rebel chambers that comprise this wing of the base.

“Alan,” Scott says. “What about the fraternization policies?”

Alan gives Scott a knowing look.

“We’re doing our best,” he says. “Marin is willing to support dissolving the Rebel legislation if we are able to convince the Council to do the same. But our fellow Jedi are proving to be more resistant.”

Scott imagines that that must be the understatement of the century.

 

* * *

 

“You know, we could leave if you wanted,” Stiles says.

Malia, who’s spent the past half hour pouring over a holo’s worth of legal documents that Morrell gave her, looks up sharply.

“What?” she says. Stiles can tell that she heard him the first time, though.

He shrugs, sitting up the slightest bit in his chair. He’s here for moral support, since when he tried to help more substantively the other day, he just ended up falling asleep and drooling on the holo projector.

“If you wanted to leave, we could do it,” he says. “I doubt they’d even try and stop us, not when you’ve been doing so much for them. And it’s not like you owe them anything. I’m just saying, if you want to leave, I’ll go with you.”

He doesn’t really want to, of course. At least, Stiles can admit to himself, he doesn’t want to leave  _ Scott _ . But Scott’s recovering more and more every day, and Stiles can’t keep them on a Rebel base indefinitely just because of his own maybe-could-be-relationship. It’s unfair to Malia, especially after all that she’s been through for and because of the Rebels.

Malia is looking at Stiles almost blankly, as though the question still hasn’t quite registered with her properly. Finally, she glances down at the holos scattered before her and shakes her head.

“Marin needs me,” she says, without meeting Stiles’ eyes. “You know that we have leverage with the former nobles because they think of me as Imperial royalty. Without that, they–”

“I know why the Rebels and Morrell want you around,” Stiles says. He’s looking carefully at Malia’s profile for any signs of reaction. “But I don’t know why–”

“It’s important,” Malia says, reading his mind. “Stiles, this– I like this. I’m good at it, just as good as I was at smuggling. I’ve forgiven the Rebels for what they did, even though I understand if you can’t.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, hadn’t thought about forgiveness in his own context just yet. Working with the Rebels has become a force of habit at this point, nothing much more than a consistent political necessity. But Stiles feels like the longer he spends here, the more likely it is that he’ll follow in Malia’s steps all too soon.

She finally looks up to meet his eyes.

“I have to see this through,” Malia says. “I want to stay.”

A long pause stretches between them. Malia looks at Stiles a little uncertainly, and Stiles knows that she must be wondering whether he’ll leave her to go back to their old life. Stiles thinks of the Rebels and their New Republic, all of the endless work to be done. He thinks of the Jedi, of Alan, who Scott says is working so hard for reform. Scott takes up a lot of Stiles’ mind in any given context, but in this one he’s especially prevalent. Scott’s presence is more than something that Stiles has gotten used to. He thinks (and the thought is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating) that it might be becoming something that he couldn’t live without.

Malia is still gazing into Stiles’ eyes, and her own have become guarded. Even with Stiles, even despite how well they know and love each other, her natural instinct is still to shield herself as much as she can. She’s all too used to being left behind. It’s that fact that solidifies Stiles’ decision. Finally, he replies, his face firm with resolve.

“Then I guess we have some work to do.”

 

* * *

 

**Five months later**

The night before Scott is to leave for his newest assignment, he has dinner with Melissa. They cook together, something that they did often when Scott was a child. It’s been one of the sources of connection that they’ve been able to work from since they were reunited.

Melissa smiles warmly as Scott tells her about his last educational mission, during which a young girl told him that she wanted to be a Jedi when she grew up. The idea of hearing those words come from any child, in any language, just a short while ago would have been impossible.

Scott used to hesitate to share these types of stories with Melissa. He didn’t know whether they would hurt her, despite the fact that she always makes a point of saying how proud she is of Scott’s work. But now, with the change in Jedi law, he knows that she’s comforted to hear about his assignments. Every time he tells her about finding a new Force-sensitive child, he can see the relief in her face as she imagines the parents. They’ll never have to go through what she did.

It’s not perfect, of course. It never could be, not with the years of absence that gulf their history. Alan is still the only other Jedi who Melissa can look in the eyes. Scott can’t blame her. He wouldn’t, even if he wanted to.

Melissa reaches over the table to take Scott’s hand, pulling him out of his thoughts. She smiles at him, warm with affection.

Stiles is away on an assignment of his own. Becoming a privateer for the New Republic has been a way for him to mediate his desire to stay with Scott and Malia and his need for the freedom to travel. Stiles has always been so used to that freedom, to the ability to fly far away whenever he wants, that it would have been impossible for him to live in the capital without it. Scott is grateful for it, glad for the happiness that it gives Stiles. But he can’t help but feel a nervous energy come over him whenever Stiles is away. Some part of Scott worries that one day, Stiles will fly away and forget all about him. He worries that at some point, Stiles might not come back.

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, Malia, Mason, and Liam all come to see Scott off. Malia is wearing her new uniform, a crisp military suit. She grins brightly, still proud to officially be President Morrell’s protege weeks after it was first announced. After Mason and Liam have both clapped Scott on the shoulder for luck, they turn to go to their own ship. Mason unselfconsciously wraps an arm around Liam’s waist.

CY-4 beeps excitedly as Scott helps them board the ship. This newest assignment is on a far-off planet that he’s never been to before, and he finds himself dragging his feet a bit as he prepares to leave. It’s not that he’s dreading the mission itself. He just wishes that– 

The roar of a ship engine suddenly sounds across the bay. Someone is landing, which makes Scott glance up in confusion. No one was scheduled to arrive from off-planet today, but a small vessel is lowering near Scott’s. It has a new paint job, one that doesn’t quite cover the smuggler colors it clearly used to sport. When Scott catches sight of this, he grins.

Stiles drops out of his ship quickly, not bothering to follow any proper landing protocols. He runs over to Scott, who can’t keep the smile off of his face, and finds that he doesn’t mind that. Stiles grips Scott in a tight hug as if they hadn’t seen each other in three weeks instead of three days.

“I thought you weren’t going to come back until after I left!” Scott says.

“Wasn’t about to let a trade deal take longer than forty-eight hours,” Stiles says, pulling away from Scott but keeping a warm hand on his shoulder. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Scott stares at Stiles’ self-satisfied, slightly flushed face for a beat, then pulls him into a heated kiss. He’s surprised how quickly he got used to the idea that he could now kiss Stiles whenever they wanted, in public or in private. Somehow he thought it would take some time, but here he is, becoming more and more consumed by the second at the taste of Stiles’ mouth, and he can barely spare half a thought to whether or not anyone can see them.

They’re interrupted after a few more seconds by the sound of CY-4 making impatient clicking noises. Scott reluctantly pulls away from Stiles, who is dazedly opening his eyes.

“Do you want to come with me?” Scott asks, and the words are out of his mouth almost faster than he thinks of them. “On my assignment?”

Stiles blinks, and then a grin spreads over his face.

"I was counting on it." 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave feedback if you enjoyed it.


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